Like a withered flower...

... almost.

... but just black tea and a bit of string -
beneath a row of windows into the autumn night.

... some more of them in the making.



When summer ended
the leaves of snapdragons withered
taking their shrill-colored mouths with them.
They were still, so quiet. They were
violet where umber now is. She hated
and she hated to see
them go. Flowers


born when the weather was good - this
she thinks of, watching the branch of peaches
daring their ways above the fence, and further,
two hummingbirds, hovering, stuck to each other,
arcing their bodies in grim determination
to find what is good, what is
given them to find. These are warriors


distancing themselves from history.
They find peace
in the way they contain the wind
and are gone.


(Lorna Dee Cervantes: Emplumada)