It’s December 2016, and we pack these winter blossoms
into bento boxes, whispers of potential
to warm these bones, worn as a wish
but later wrapped as a promise.
You profess you cannot understand poetry
so brave the words in plain sight, born of longing
for a lighter spring, a bold leap towards belonging
to the flow of the seasons and folded limbs.
‘More fun’, you said, ‘more time’, list reasons to celebrate
our intertwining lives and smile at the story so far.
The story; so far.