Even a wild rose, a dog rose, a monk flower is this unfamiliar after a while. If my liege lord is a listening I’ve sworn fealty to, I sense a hesitation in the silhouettes. Lest a fear of stumbling. Gold as a fish, slight as a ray, I tie my own hand to this millstone. Beneath bark I tremble to decorticate, what hooded leaf? What ore deposit? What sleek hare? Crocus, turn the rough sketch of your winter face. I’ll button you up, my bud. Sprout, I’ll sip your nectar.