pliant softness
and fragility
of open petals
that causes us, as we
dash past, to grow
anxious—
to clamp our mouths
shut, stiffen
up, and become
what we fear most: those
tense, insipid
imitations of ourselves.
It's as though,
when confronted
with such
slow and deliberate
forms of movement,
our subconscious aches
from its breakneck approach.
But instead of going limp,
we go
unbending
as we make haste
for cover, since we feel
so exposed.
