I hear Navroz and I picture roses every time.
A word the shape of things I cannot say
or cannot think to say. All of the ways I am reminded
ache and root and chasm—
It is spring again and I am holding the watering can
at your edge, willing
each of your nephrons to bud and flower anew.
It is spring again—
Navroz—meaning your hair, clipped now, will entrance
with its vivid darkness once more. Mother,
you are the silhouette of every spring I have gulped down.
It was such a long
winter, your body filled with dead seeds.
And all along, there was also this—every poem filled
with the shade of you,
even this ode to spring.
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