an accidental cherry blossom bloomed outside my window once,
like me, out of season. during that winter’s snowfall,
something was lost in the translation between you and me:
we never said there were ways to make me stay
at home in front of the hearth,
empty.
i rattled in that place, banging from wall to wall,
listening to the clash of bone and metal,
cushioning myself with the petals of roses bloomed in a far warm place.
(you always bought them for me).
i lost everything in a smell of pines,
and long days with no leaves and
lacking something even to make a fire,
i picked the snow-flowers and ate the stems;
a modern girl and the wilderness.
short-waisted and long-legged,
i would rather have had hooves to break the snow crust with
and to stop the ground’s cold thorns
from piercing the soles of my feet and the palms of my hands.
i forgot to shut the door when i left,
so focused on my snowy blossom,
and the ice came creeping in,
building walls on your living room carpet.
you didn’t forgive me even after the ice melted,
sweeping away the winter flowers,
leaving stains in the shape of a betrayal.
