with little sense
of wont and desire, less
like the flowers
that arose in February’s earnestness
and more in the dim
apathy of March mornings –
poetry lurks.

It seeks neither the fervor
of moments beneath the lilac
tree, nor the sweet aftertaste
of blackberries from yesterday’s
market.

It sneaks between the
goodwill trees, evergreen,
and brings back carcasses and twigs.

Scars, long ignored,
are indelible now. They will not be
mocked to insignificance,
but rather written down
after foraging the bleak and raw,
perfecting each and every flaw.