You made more sense as a bud
petals furled around a delicate blossom of blood and vein
you made more sense contained, all a part and not apart from me
you made more sense then, a slender tooth of bone
wrapped in cells dividing into infinity,
you made more sense.
I'm not a miracle, you say, and the act of saying renders you wrong
you, whose tongue shapes thought into sound, you
whose brain whirls and clicks, all inward gentle machinations,
plotting the peculiar way children do you make me see the unseeable:
holding up a folded paper, you say: look, a rainbow prism, and I agree.
I can see the light shining from your paper or maybe your fingers,
of course I do.
You are a study in nonsense, of surprises and
dashed expectations. You're a blossom of angles
and edges, bent knees and sheer will. You're full flower,
unconstrained, and it is still infinity, an unfurling that extends so far past my reach
that I'm left grasping and gasping.
Come back. Stay forever.
I can't, you remind me. One day I'll die.
And one day you will, too.
You made more sense as a bud --
I could harbor a bud, easy.
But there is no holding on to this, no tether
(you infinite bloom)
There is no letting go, either.
