Contour
LE Francis
An ascendant of catacombs,
dawn-lit foothills in
feral sage sleep:
wait for spring,
wait for thaw,
wait for May,
for the
wake
that
tempts
skyward
the snowy
chambers of the
lily’s bloom; heart-
like, and complicated as
the ice-deep bones of rivers
that held close the flesh of winter.
48
Cauldron Anthology