Bud, like branch
as if small, or gone far,
to what might you bloom?
A rose prim, or buxom?
A spearing new-minted finial fine
in green iron cast, your tender tendril
to wind against wind
up railing, perhaps,
or soil-grounded for brick’s brace
in your bed, instead.
Bud
tyrrellknot 
Reblogged this on taramander and commented:
My friend Simon Tyrrell spun this poem during the course of the Creative Writing for Wellbeing that Sarah O’Hanlon steered us through in my studio. I love it.
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