In flowers blue as our cropped fingernails
in petals pale as ghosts in our shared dreams
surges a nectar sipped through gossamer wings
a healing balm for all the living things.

Veiled in sunlight, draped in moon beams,
our masked hope peeks through shuttered doors
out toward the perfumed air of spring, the calm
abode of breath of he who keeps the scores.

We stutter prayers to cope, blame the blight
on blossoms blue, wait for him to quench our thirst
in kind communion, sweet serum on the tongue.
The lung. Despair flits and flutters, at last alights;

each breath quietly implores mercy
and lumbers slowly forth to him for alms