The hyacinths
they were heads peeking above a
fence, prisoners in a camp
behind a wall under a sky belonging to
the same world that made their
petals ashy, paper-fine to the
touch and it's a wonder one
rainstorm didn't destroy them.
But resilience, as you know, is
everything in a place like this so
rather than crumble to dust
they folded with the wind and
held onto each other's brittle stalks
and when the morning came they hung
limp but alive and drying again under the
merciless sun.