You opened me that cold May morning, caught in your
Dove light

And temple glass. The wax folds of your spiral collapse.

Calla, you ask for so little.

Painters glean the mythic Virgin, white wings unfurling
through poet’s pen.

Location so important to consider.

Prayer of renewal as your stalk is sliced from holy
ground.

Milk sap falling through tepid waters.

How you thrived in loose, well-drained soil!

Untouched martyr, you bloom above the casket

That opened me on this cold day of mourning.

“Plant me in the spring, you whispered, wait until the
threat of frost has passed.”