The wrists unfold, softly
as the bud's tight fist unravels
to the gradual light. It is
a decent happiness to be alive.
What worries me is hour's stale
bright outline. The heat becomes
a furnace in the heart. Soon wilting,
all petals charred and coiling.
And now the gardener with sterile
gloves, clips the stem and bough
sending all the birds away, pores
and cracks puckering, sapped over,
the smell of orange blossom.
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