i ask you, rose
where you got your renowned red
your baby’s breath seem to hold theirs
and your delicate petals slowly unfurl
as if to say,
“by blooming”

i ask you, sky
where you got your horizon’s hue
and your ivory gossamer-thin clouds flesh out suddenly
your azure obscured from my view
as if to say,
“this is the color i prefer you to see”

i ask you, ocean
where you got your summery salt
and you begrudgingly lap the sand again and again
with a watery crash and a rush of sea foam
as if to say,
“would salt not rise in you, too?”

i ask you, night
where you got your pitch dark
and as stoic as you are
i see the twinkle of a diamond in your dusk
as if to say,
“if i am dim, someone else will be bright for me”

i ask you, me
where you got your callous heart;
from the vulnerable openness of a flower?
or the shyness of the sky’s expanse?
was it from the salt of a sea raging inside you?
or the stars who ignore your woeful nights
while they bask in their own glow?
and hot tears threaten to spill on my cheeks
as if to say,
“this earth, and my time on it”