The last words the sea spoke
before it died, the last sigh
of the great wind that blew
before we were born, the last
light that dawns on the hill
of our dying, skull hill we
would call it. These are all
I remembered when I bloomed—
a tiny star of blood hidden
among the orange trees that bore
nothing, a star of no hope
and no pain, just so much
color in the dull light of winter.
You chose me as your color, you
cut me from the stem and wore
me in your hair, and for a time
I was adornment, I was again
a star, something that beckoned
until my petals died and dulled.