With a latte in my hand
and my feet resting on Phoenician sand
I contemplate how
I, the unworthy Lazarus,
how I will explain to you
that this time
I really did feel you
as you moved through my wounded cells.
Your petals arrived at night
as though to mock the mind
that put me to sleep,
swearing death had arrived.
To you, who have healed this wound,
I promise
never again
will I walk away from this
this field of midnight petals.
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