We search for a scarlet rosebud,
grabbing past the dreary thorns —
hidden but hopeful — pricking us
on our pursuit of that perfect bloom
sprouting defiantly for us.
The fire reveals the fruit but
illuminates scars — some we’d hoped
to hide with half-eaten candy —
not realizing that the bigger the room
the more places for serpents to hide.
I feel fortune’s poke in this, propelling us
on a treasure hunt where X
misses the mark sometimes while
our best highwater pants
keep our shins delightfully dry.
History shines here, filtered
through the trees and mixing
with the sunlight that warms our
necks just as it did
years ago creating a dense fog
we’ve almost stopped
We choose the sun, tickling
our necks as we face
another day, heads held high,
with a long-remembered warmth encircling,
encouraging us onward.
We find the heat, massaging
our chests as we perspire
through the thick air, breathing hard,
with a too-familiar determination warming,
wearing us onward.
Still, we live in its shadow,
and while we choose to
stay in the light we see
our shadows play longer
though we blindly seek a refuse
from cold breezes
stirring up again.