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—

that shine

is the only truth I trust across blinding darkness, 

the last promise of safety

still worth following to shore.

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