The Roots of Independence

Fireworks are the quickest flowers,
blooming on stems of smoke,

exploding only a few brief moments
in a small patch of sky whose soil is darkness

their openings erase—we plant them once
a year above us, water them with tears,

but once we smile we forget they wither
from the slightest breath of awe—

we wake the next morning, the garden,

No comments: