The anemones of my childhood bleed from downy stems. Their blossoms grow seasonless with paper flower speed,
springing suddenly to bend and flow over their mossy bed. I bend to pick them before I go
home again, dropping rootjuice red behind me in pink milk stains as if my footprints bled
marking yesterday’s terrain. The anemones of my childhood bleed, scattered from their source like rain
over the past where I retrace time that has become a place.