tyrants

english spring

the sun clutches at my arms, rays like hands unfurling. palms a crescent against the ripe skin of my elbow. i am the petals, blooming bright and stark, the pads of my feet treading gashes into the brown earth,
i see the small creatures, papery spiders. the fur on the bees, and i am born again, an emergence from the blue canal of winter. breeching, gently first, and then all at once: i grow outwards, young still, on atrophied legs,
i will learn to use
again