Harvest

Lost in the philosophies of the Bible,

a flower pressed more than a decade ago

slips its closure: purple crepe

with brown veins flattened into flaw.

Early flesh comes back to light

as shadow. Its bright blemish gone.

A yellow pollen dusts its failed explosion

on my wrist. Is there a knowing

that recovers the field, the blossom opening

at the sun, that very day of harvest?

All through the house, pages flutter

with the threat of more disclosures,

claiming rose and petunia, orange narcissus.

Safe in the weak light of my lamp, a petal crumbles

and makes the fall through air

back to earth.

From “Eye of Water: Poems,” by Amber Flora Thomas (University of Pittsburgh Press: 74 pp., $14 paper)