Intolerable Season

We were born to create,
rising from mud, wild flowers
different as fingerprints or
the bodies of trees.

And our names roll sweetly
unfolding- tongues of butterfly
eating sweetness, clutching the stamen
with our frail, hooked fingers.

What travels on wind, aimlessly,
settles in cracks of stones or
carried downstream to new ground
re-creates where it came from.

Meanwhile, no amount of oblivion
or intolerable season can stop us
from making or being everything
we seem.

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