The circling point of dark distils
Around a single opening flower.
Its petals touch the edge of night,
A fragile archway through the stars.
This moment in its simple pain:
A pointless mark, a questioned breath,
A finger tracing ‘round a rose,
Then pointing off towards the skies.
And in the mind the scent of springs:
From way before the start of time,
The buds unfurled before the words,
The roses bloomed before the end.
Around the hand the petals fall,
As memories lose their ties to Earth.