Winter Flower
The beauty of a flower is born in the winter.
It is there in that suffering
Amidst the bones of bareness
And the cold of snow
Stark and stretched
White as a perpetual desert
It is there
Where the flower finds its seed
Where red is drawn as deep as lava
And the scent as sweet as cidered apple.
It is there
Not dug from the frozen root
Of Earth
But bloomed from the blood
Of the our imagination
Beyond from where the bleak hovers
And sorrow
Sinks
It is there
Where the soul flinches and leaps
To the distant
Faint
But familiar light of being re-born.
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