come spring, the bed is tangled
with the shoots of herbs and flowers,
covering spaces in the dirt. before,
the earth buzzed with a motherly fever,
the pulse of something new – you, a butterfly
in a jar, the underside of a tapestry,
bright tails hanging out. you wait,
feeling only the weight of yourself –
a heaviness she knew, and carried well.
kicking at the space, blooming outwards,
held between the very walls that wanted
so desperately to free you – she taps
at the glass to see you flicker. you were
a bulb pressed into winter soil; come spring
you haven’t broken the surface, but found
your own season, somewhere softer, quieter.