Crocus Dark untamed earth, impersonal, unjudging, who made you drink up and swallow in the light on which you chew and spit back out in colors of touch and smell and hearing and sight? Are these ordained, or sprouts of pure randomness? So visceral, but equally sublime, forged deep in furnaces of stars, mysterious alchemic artistry, do we from these result? We harm your flesh by walking over you? I see a swelling bump, and from beneath the dry crushed leaves a perfumed bruise shows up. Anamaria Julia Dragomir
35
