Metamophosis

What concerned me most

was the fervor

of pirouettes.

 

“Aren’t the crocuses lovely

this time of year?”

There was a rift

in your tone.

 

All I remember is

being pulled away

from you,

from the shore

as we listened

to blackbirds.

 

A new strain,

another feigned bridge.

Still, I am feeling less

vaulted lately.

 

Long ago,

I stopped underestimating

the power of environment

upon the

fragile human psyche.

 

A nocturnal bloom

more than you

could ever know.

 

Andromeda petals reflect

a light year’s longing.

 

In these

darkest of hours,

it is less about poetry

than it is

the poem.