This winter is a bear
in my garden: it sharpens
its claws against the oak and snuffs
through topsoil to pry loose the hidden bulb.
I traced its path in window frost,
how the soft pad of its heel pressed me
like a child inside the womb
until the swift puncture of claw.
I breathed and watched the veil dissolve,
absence blooming from my mouth:
the steady exhale, no bulb
warming its blossom.
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.