Late-Blooming Wildflower

You grew in soil I never tilled,

yet here you are—

petals bright against the frost.

I water you with bedtime stories,

grandmother’s hands,

and the quiet promise:

no storm will name you “mistake.”

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A Small Poem for the Lover

You were the detour he swore was home. I never hated you— only the mirror you held to his hunger. Sleep, stranger. Your baby braids my hair on Sunday

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