Iced Flower

A fox runs, a squirrel's in hiding;
a child lost her toy in the white.
This, at stainless hush staring
i mind, caught in cold's bite,
thinking that under clear skies
a certain flower I lost hides.

It's rare, sacred and delicate
and it's odd the more it's seeked
the more it shelters, as if hunted.
ungrateful ones may have trampled it
and in vain may I have searched a bit.

Torch-lighted burials are not its home
neither are caves or dark stone
but valleys of life plenty.

One, they say, by an iced river grows;
to discoverers, luck nature bestows,
for just two red stripes on its back shows
amidst the white that around it flows

The dying sun's last rays
through bones of tree dripped
as lost in eternal chase
my very soul they had gripped.

Warped words the ghosts sang,
and here, at final dusk
where ice exposed its tusk
the cold joined death's fang.

But there, lo and behold!
Arising, i see new hope.
where stands the radiant flower
there vivid colors shower.
heart heats, dark recedes
life, death, all and everything
the flower links.

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