A flower heaves up from the silt,
a soft violence split from the dark
without a word of apology.
It rises because it is hungry,
and for a heartbeat
it is the only thing
the sun can see.
It exhales.
a debt,
not a scent.
The bloom,
a surrender
to the light
that invited it out.
Why?
Because the sky gives only
what it intends to take back.
Is this the measure?
That beauty is the briefest distance
between birth and burial?
A burn in the eye
that asks to be remembered?
We do not love the rose.
We love the vanishing.
We are drawn to the flame
because we are made of wax.
Stand still too long,
and it will eat the air
around your lungs.
You will chase it
into tall grass.
You will reach out your hand.
But can you ever catch
what is already
turning to heat
in your grasp?
