Lay me in pedals that stretch their arms in the wake of spring.

“Hurry, we’re blooming” -They called out to me as the branches woke and quenched everyone’s thirst. This is not an earthy act- this is the rising. This is growing through cracked surfaces. This is finding a pulse in a cold awakening.

I’m in the midst of it. I watch the entire thing unravel. Let me circle the room over and over and over until there’s nothing left to notice. And if you watch closely, you’ll see the mourning air cover everything – daring it to stay asleep. The haunting frost creeps over the town and we all breath in what’s left of the ghosts. And then the sun laughs. Asks the dreary host, “where is your sting?”. It doesn’t answer back. I mean, how could it? watch the bloom open it’s eyes and everything breaths softly- creating that wind. A familiar gust. The kind you swore you felt once before. It’s all too familiar. I know it all too well and feels like an awakening.

Someone once told me that’s how we know heaven is real. I’m not sure that I believed them back then, but I do now. And if I could live in blooming whirlpools, I’d let the flowers coat me like silk. I’d drown in their colors and let them show me how to breath with ease. I’d watch the sun fall in front of me like a crutch and lean on it like I never left. I’d ask it to lay me in pedals that stretch their arms in the wake of spring. Dare myself bloom. AMT