by Allegra Jostad Silberstein

I caught a butterfly in my hands
felt the flutter of its wings...

opened my palms
for I could not see
the beauty prisoned
in my hands folded close.

A florist tells me some rosebuds
curl around themselves like bullets...
they never open
they’re discarded

Place me in a vase like a gift.
Tell me to risk blossoming.

In the warmth of summer days
even in the gathering dark
the cricket sings...

hold my hand
let me close my eyes and drift
into that language heard in touch.

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