I hold the silver over flesh and feel the sting of thorns.
It seems like there was no damage.
Ah, there it is.
The red buds grow from the pink stem.
The buds swell with life ready to burst.
Suddenly they flow away no longer beauty.
They stain the world around them with their colors.
They remind us that they are here.
The silver now stained with flowers,
like my mother after birth, lays static in my hand.
What beauty they have made
in that river over flesh.
Do they know it?
That the stain they have made is perfect.
I'm sure they care,
but do they understand?
Do they know?
That though it is beautiful
The flower must fall
or it must fly.