Even as she dies
the flowers celebrate;
each Trillium a different mourning call.
An array of tiny ballerinas
bent delicately towards the flaming sun.
While spring waits for the does’ tracks to disappear,
fire rises over the hillside
and refracted flames drip
into hollowed palms.
As silent dew collects on the edges of her sunken cheeks,
I envy the birth of a buck-
his antlers forged from the burning cross.
Tucked away in the grass,
she lays.
Bound by a Birthroot that
gives life as quickly as it
takes it away.