not winter pollen

Tell me about your worst day—
who stayed, who ran,
who held your hand,
who pointed a finger,
who kept your heart
safe, and whose touch
bled scar tissue
across it.

Tell me what happened
when the world cracked—
was the truth
like the river
or the rain? Did you dance
or look for shelter?
Did you pull mourning
out of your bones
like marrow,
or did you begin
a fire with your soul
as kindling?

Tell me the truest thing
you are longing for—
name it. Curl the hope up
in your palm, carefully,
as if it is bird-fragile,
be gentle. Do not lie
to yourself, saying
you have forgotten
how to seed, how to find
dirt, how to grow. This
is not winter pollen,
this is not ghost tracks
in the far-reaching snow,
this is not impossible,
and this is not
your worst day—

you have permission
for anything you can imagine,
now,
what act of wildness
do you dare commit?