flowers in february

Why can I no longer drink in purpose from the cherry blossoms?
My skin slowly grows more used to time's passage,
her robe of razors turning the soil,
making old ideas new again.
Perhaps it is because my brush is no longer forged from her branch
or maybe because I have not let her flowers adorn my temple as of late.
When I come across the February of my days will I be thinking of Spring?
Does some rogue cold snap exist out there with my name upon its icy fingers?
Tender pink against a cloudless blue.
Would that we could wade in such innocence,
that our limbs would reach so longingly for light,
that we could make of our impurities:
a flower
a root
a fragrance
a brush
with which to turn this old soil.



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