“…Hindi ako bumati sa simula upang sa huli ay magpaalam.”
[“…I did not hail you at the outset, only to take your leave at the end.”
~ Andres Bonifacio; 1897 Mayo 1

Their flick and turn, a darker shape of flame
leaping out of a lighter after the finger

releases the spark wheel; flint pressed
to steel, volatile tongue to the forked

spring— In the cold air, wouldn’t you
rather love the ripple of starlings instead

of fallen leaves? Every roof is taxed with
dying brown, wet yellow, torn rust. Goodbye

for now, tender sky. The hard season’s
fully upon us. Like birds we sense what

pulls like a claw at the edge of the dream.
Our defense: not so much to scatter, as to swell.


In response to Via Negativa: Late bloomers.

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