Oh, but maybe it’s you after all who’s right, to count
the costs of lingering. I have grown white with blossom,
wrinkled with lichen, confused with kisses that came
after the peace was declared. And still the roots push deeper
and the flare is brighter, and the copper-green pulls gold
tighter to the finger. How to reckon now, with the end
and the beginning both lost in the half-leaved trees?
In response to Luisa Igloria's Letter to Ardor at Via Negativa.