Trauma Bond in March: After the Miscarriage
The tulips have flowered too early.
I cover the beds in white sheets
to keep them warm.
Frost pulled down from the stars
into a remembering
by morning. I am no mother
to the flowers or anyone.
and the world feels more delicate
Winter clipped. New wings lifting.
Doves adoring the sound
of their own song.
I have been told
some plants bloom once then die.
Flight is the answer,
though water can be an answer too.
Everybody (body) a vanishing act.
Seed without root.
And now the petals fall,
wishes to love
And now, the sound of distant laughter
enters my open window,
like ghosts. Softer now,
gentle weight of these small bones.