You must share the same soul
with peach trees, baby’s-breath,
and the painted lighthouses of Maine.
For you are tender under the burden of my palms,
more delicate than daybreak on Easter Sunday,
and the only discernible beacon
standing tall where my earth meets sky.
my succulent, immaculate,
solitary beam of pearly light—
is the only truth I trust across blinding darkness,
the last promise of safety
still worth following to shore.