i saw it in their backyard

so light as an Eidolon,
a beast with a torso like fire trembles;
a ribbon flailing in the gale,
a contortionist; scalp touching spine.

it's time under heaven

why must summer violets die,
why do the petals yellow?
is there one unwilted leaf
to set between the pages we stopped reading on?

is there anything save hope,
that would allow the winter months
a chance to do what they never do?
under snow, can a violet grow,
into the shape of you?

is there a prayer i'll see your face,
emerging from the melting flakes?
or is it too far-fetched to think,
i'll be greeted by else than necrotic stink?

the part of me that has a hold
says wait, grow, pray.
don't plant the seed 'till may.