The sunroom an explosion of mottled hearts,
tendrils unfurling all the way to the ceiling
as if I’m the right kind of saint, the kind
who can charm life from death’s coiled basket.
I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it.
My grandmother grew roses so deeply red
her garden seemed more dream than reality.
Even the yard I memorized as a kid held peonies
heavy enough to illuminate night like strings of moons.
This alchemy a darker quickening, almost impossible
to kill and fed by anything but light.
If I close my eyes I can actually feel them—
the roots of my failures reaching in blackness,
pulling sustenance from an energy so big it scares me.
About the Creator
Lori Lamothe
Poet, Writer, Mom. Owner of two rescue huskies. Former baker who writes on books, true crime, culture and fiction.
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