Blossom born

I walk on exposed blades—
wounds open,
shards underfoot,
searching for my lost balance—
living edges,
unsheathed knives,
uncountable blades,
uncountable wounds.
The storm rumbles,
like a rumor of war.

Fields of torn souls
crossing generations—
each day echoes
with what was lost,
what was locked away,
what was abandoned.

The unattended scent of death
still lingers—
in quiet hands,
collapsed spines,
muted tongues,
an unnoticed blindness,
unborn desires
crying to be heard.

And I fall,
and fall,
until I hit the ground—
and still,
there I search,
and search,
searching for myself,
peering over the edge,
beyond,
into the deep.

I look for something
to ease the way,
to hold me up—
in the midst of the rending
of trembling hearts.

I sniff the air
searching for intact sentience,
for the pulsing sense
of fullness.

I seek the beauty
of loving what is—
the soul,
a rising tide
in my heart.

I seek the serene joy
of loving what comes,
even the defiant unknown
of the blind ringing.

There,
the soul ascends in her own dance—
her gaze turns to the sky
while her heart fuses with the earth.

Her eyes rise
above the abyss.

And the blood—
royal red,
blossom-born,
flows stealthily,
spreading renewal.

—Lorena Wolfman (2019, 2025)