The Bloom

In breaking light, cracks open,
a crumbling shell, easily
opened like distant clouds
drifting into pairs. And earth

dark history who buries men
and wolves, down a thousand miles
down where even shadows quickly
suffocate, disappear. What of glory,

the start of spring, a sweet
blood-smell clinging to leaves,
the sleeping root, the porous stones?
Again, the unheard resurrection of

our souls, the sprout, the bloom.

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