Flowers are nice. The desire wound right around the starting line where the wind picks up. The hard outer shell sharp to a point opens out into pale blue blooms. The sky welcomes the shift and crumbled sheets where a tiny head and tiny hands lay sleeping. I pivot where the meaning starts to fray while remembering the kaleidoscope of orange and black land and flutter and land again. Resigning myself to the fact that I will not transform came easy, one look in the mirror and the wound reopened in the present tense. Breathing does not come easy, every movement is forced and considered but somehow I play my part in reseeding the wildflowers and weeds. I am worth my weight in fruit or at least I take that to be my truth.