Harvest Season

harvest season

hello moonshine midnight

once again. i find your cold

skin searching for my own

flesh in this passage of spring

time. deep breaths and wait

for the rustle of new blossoms,

fresh sakura, lost on strangers

expecting roses. the moon finds

me rested on this land, into this

soil. i am extracting nutrients

and implanting them into my

body. my temple—the only one

that i still know how to pray to

—blowing out its candles.

hands clasped, knees scraped,

i press to the point of blood and

maybe god will listen more. is it

still dark? i have been here for

seasons of lingering twilight

teasing the horizon. it knows

how much sunlight it can hide

to fake its presence. truth: it

likes the evening primrose.

but it also likes the necessity

—its absolute job. so it always

comes through the stained

windows casting rainbow

patterns onto the floor. my

eyes are looking for the dark

in between because i, too, love

evening primrose though i only

harvest sakura. truth: i cannot

learn to make primrose on my own.

my trembling hands and stuttering

fingers always travel back to

the blossoms i have already

perfected. the ones everyone thinks

suit me best. they are more my style.

but i've heard of miracles in inhibitions.

—moonlight lover of illegal drugs. i

let my hand fall into the seedlings,

buried by someone else, i want to bear

their blooms. dawn, i beg to sleep easy.

i grow my primrose for closed eyes.

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