A prickly waking

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.