The Spring Ephemeral

When midnight matters,
my eyes will shine as bright as new moons.

Press me like a spring blossom between dusty pages.
Let me bleed blues and greens onto the thinning fiber,
smearing words until they are indecipherable.
The pools of melting ink blend with my flat, browning tones
but do not resurrect me

not this time. This will not be my story:
seeds planted in the cold earth do not give life.

I will not be there. I will not be reaching toward the sun
yearning for a confident drop of guidance no,
that is not my story either.

Today, I am the squirrel
other days, the clever acorn buried over winter
transforming into oak before
I am rediscovered

I am the cultivar
born in a raspberry patch
and I will die there too, amid the thorns.
My limbs stretch up, up—yet even still
the dark earth will swallow me again,
before

I take my first breath