Spring

I have a puncture wound on my palm from a bone, a tiny red blossom opening on a warm and pleasant spring afternoon. A bee lands on it in search of nectar. He flies away in lazy zig-zags of disappointment. Better luck next time.

I pluck the blossom and plant it behind my ear. Blood trickles down my cheek and gathers on my lips. They shine, slicked with life. If I fell to my knees and kissed the earth what would grow? My joy and sorrow would rise from the soil and climb to the sky, reaching for the heavens.

I look down. My hand still has a puncture wound from a bone. I wipe my hand on my jeans. The stain looks like rust.