I am laid bare, peeled to the bone
a tree in winter, all my blossoming
as ephemeral as last summer’s roses.

Today I must remember
the truth in things, surface and texture and fold:
my just-washed hair, apple-scented;
my skin cool smooth, with a sometime roughness
as in raw silks where threads make light
break across evenness in beauty;

remember, the way my eyes open to the window
where the bare tree sings with an invisible bird.

Rose Flint