let him pick no more

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don’t blossom here, flower,

close up, go back inside. don’t reach,

for your sun, don’t open your petals

wide.  don’t smile, or believe, or

speak your fuschia dreams.

he’ll pick you if you bloom just right,

grip you, rip you, wilt your hue,

until a lovelier one blooms, and he will

drop you. pick her. pick her. pick her.

you’ll be lying on the ground, with no

way to grow. wither. hold your blooms,

dear flower, let him pick no more.

Icy Tree Under the Fire Sky

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Icy tree under the fire sky

holds on to her shine, grips

her tender fingers with diamond

drops and defies him to threaten

her with his heat.  She is proud,

stands at the top of the rise,

tips back her head and sings.

Her frozen limbs swing to catch

late day light, sparkle and know

she belongs this way, shining

through angry fire.  He closes in,

trying to melt her delicate ice,

but she holds it higher, her promise,

until fire has melted, receded,

and all that remains behind

is the blue glow of hope.