the heart-flower transits to its own accord---
as the pinwheel rotates
along with the solitary winds &
unwinding growth of the budding branch
one door into a maze of hazy hallways
the scent of the sweeping waves of the snow-seas
the forlorn. gate of ice. where the heart is frozen-locked
deep into the winter night in the solace of the streetlamps
interwoven into the gravitated silk of the waterfalls
the hands of the flowers deeply etching the colors
of the leaves as they unfolded in the spirit of grace
our pages of the unimaginable unraveling of the bliss strings fabricated in the bud
