“Peel back the bark.

Find my face”.


From the core

her voice


naming flowers:


“Daisy, violet

queen anne’s lace.”


(Flowers I gathered as a child.)


The flowers wrap around my tongue.

They cling beneath my fingertips.

They wade in slow steps with the dark.

They wait in fields for me to wake.


They whisper in gentle floods of grace:


“Peel back the bark.

Find my face.”