“And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter.” -Sylvia Plath
I share the astonishment of wounded stars,
spellbound in their wandering courses,
held blithely captive to wonder.
To be seen, to be known.
The petals drop slowly, rhythmically even,
until quintessence alone remains,
perched on fragile stem.
To be chosen, to be loved.
I partake of a sumptuous repast
where brokenness leads
to no loss of appetite.
To be embraced, to be set free.