Curled unseen
tight-packed glory whispers.
Stretches.
Bursts prickled grave clothes.
She wakes thus to Love.
Slowly.
Spines tight-clung to her edges.
‘Take off the grave clothes and let her go.”
A word, a touch, a storm’s breath lifts
the prickly echo
and the crumpled soul opens a little wider
to Love.
