Six Red Months

I know this road, a map etched in my heart.

The narcissus bends its heavy head, the way it always bent.

Six months of ash, six months to bear the load,

the seed still bitter with a grief unspent.

Again.

The gate remembers my knuckles before I knock.

My mother's tender face, still wet, still turned toward spring.

I count the months that pass in pomegranate seeds.

The lock clicks shut again on every green, growing thing.

Again...

maybe i keep the seeds because they're all mine

— not stolen, only chosen, sweet and small.

i trace the darkness the way i trace a vine

that knows which wall it's meant to climb and crawl.

again

and when i rise the crocus knows my name,

the almond trees undress themselves for me,

the whole earth turns its face up, green and tame,

unfolding door that wants to let me in.

again,

so let the door remember.

let it learn the give of hinges softened by descent.

no tear rolls down my cheek the way it used to burn

— only a sigh, breath easy, breath well-spent.

again.