For so long, I was afraid to touch you,
terrified that my suspicions would be
correct, and that, as all beautiful
living things do when touched
by death, you would wither,
your leaves tense, your husk
skittering away.
Against my better judgment, I held you
tight to me. You were sun-warm
and blood-full. The autumn
was so good to you.
But I was wrong anyway. The summer sky
dawned red, and I was wrong.
The things I touch don’t wither.
They burn.
