Marigold Birth


the time draws nigh.

inside the little bud lie

tissue paper petals,

and until they emerge, they cannot settle.

those curling infants,

they press against the fence

of their dark womb,

all around, their limbs strewn.

their flaxen tufts like gossamer,

they swim in dark, salty liqueur,

straining for the world’s perfume.

when time finally comes to bloom,

can the wisps of gold in the infants’ veins

ever fully escape the dark chains?

because the cluster of tufts

may not have enough

to reach for the sun, its yellow rays,

and grow and blaze.

yet the bud sees itself in the sun,

its yellow tinge similar to that one’s.

it hopes to darken into fire and gold,

to blossom into the first month

and no longer bear the brunt

of the briny battlefront.