I’m impatient and petulant and impulsive
I’m brave and important and maybe something a little like autumn light on leaves or river water dappling
The first kitchen drawer I open has a single piece of paper inside, detailing the fire restoration
I read something recently that I think I knew but did not quite remember: the world grows flowers first following flame
Is it funny then, or perhaps too on-the-nose, that the first to dwell here again is me?
Named for petals I’m nothing like and perhaps more astutely after the big rig the Polish truck driver across the street drove home the week before my birth?
Probably too on-the-nose, too poetic, too sugary sweet for any properly cultured mouth to consider worthy of savor
Still, I’ll try my best to bloom here.
