whatever now
the thought has been
that I might die the winter –
and go to sleep
beneath the frigid wind
warmed below
an icy shawl –
tears would never melt
or blossoms see
their way again
to grow

of princes come
for me before –
and waited long this night
returning me a path
I’d never been
worn in places
some would say
they saw me fly one morning –
held within a stream
of northern lights

iris stands
two hundred strong –
naked in surrender
as dreaming
burst to life
another day
when words were fallen
easily –
as whispers to the dawn
withholding yet a place
to lay me down

. . .