Children Born of Petals

Artwork by Isabelle Lu, staff artist

In a far away meadow, we were children born of petals.

The buds unfurled around us. We stretched our arms utmost.

In our hands, the dewdrops’ memories of the night settled.

The twilight lingered. We were raised by the touches of ghosts.

I keep petals pressed between pages until they dry to a lost one’s skin.

Home is where one pours their shadow into

Floorboard cracks and memorizes the creaks when they walk in.

Between the cracks along the flowers, dawn creeps through.

Time is rearranging the petals around it’s shoulders.

The garden cannot live in summer when the air is growing colder.

The world isn’t worse, it is just new.