​

Bloom

​

The ritual is done.

The harvest of tears proudly stored.

Pristine they look, with no taint of reason.

Now I let go, as I have done before.

Just this once,

let me walk with you an extra mile.

Let me brush my fingertips lightly

against your affection for the calf.

Let me sport a little

with ripples that tell you stories

in hushed tones.

Let me be windswept. I want to

taste the storms

that make your nib bleed.

 

Go. Sail your boat. Journey.

Just this once,

let me take a tear drop from you

and add it to my harvest.

If ever you touch these shores again,

I will be here with a flower for you:

a flower that grows once in many years,

if buried tears tempt the moon and stars

to spend a day with them,

beneath the earth.