Roots are steps in soil. Steps to rise
upon. Steps attended by dark life, earth being
what roots must dig into. To bury these seeds
knowing they will rise again. To bury hands
in rich dirt knowing things will grow well here.
To bury one’s face in a bouquet of lilac without
allowing one blossom to touch your skin.
The aroma, perfume surrounds, saturates
as petrichor attends those who dig.
Open your eyes to this constellation
of small purple flowers that fade
forward, smell the life you stand upon,
follow away into a blue white stain,
world a blur of light, shadow, perfume,
flower, leaf. Climb these stairs with me.
Visit from the mother
Mother hummingbird,
pray perch on subtle twig of lilac,
wise to trust, or so I tell myself,
pirouette so I may admire electric green



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