For whatever reason the rose waits to bloom,
I wait too.
Past midsummer and the rains,
autumn windfalls and winter gains,
the lean sodden spring is when I trust
the leaden slush and bedraggled birds
to learn me a new season.
What a risk to trust in this—
the fetid musk of life in flux
and the blooms that will rot in the rain.
© 2017 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.