Aperture (with Tania P)

Perhaps dead in the yard: this swollen thumbs-width olive trunk, scabbed and knobbed at multiple pruned junctures. Waist high, antlered, waiting for the end. Faithless gardener, look again: branch tips host waxen stems, green-rimmed scarlet spears that secret concentric butter hearts girls of earth will later pluck and slip behind their ears.

Maybe every flower that exists first opens in the mind of the dreamer of that flower. In the deepest hour of the night the sleeping buds begin to stir, slowly unfolding their translucent petals, one by one, giving off a faint scent that draws the night moth out of darkness.