In December, small birds blossom from treetops at dawn; the sun blooms like a dinnerplate dahlia, gold at its center and pink at the tips of its reach. Clumps of rudbeckia, dusky and dry, glisten with elegant crystalline frills. The garden sleeps and dreams that she is the world, the sky— dreams that she can fly. A house finch ruffles his purple feathers like a burgeoning bud in the maple. The soft rose of morning opens over the mountains.
The tightly closed bud
of winter dawn bursts open —
feather, fire, and frost
Allisonn Church was born in a small rural community in western Massachusetts to a mother who pinned butterflies in glass cases and hid scarab beetles in her jewelry box. Her first favorite poem was “The Willow Fairy” by Cicely Mary Barker. She is previously published in The Hopper magazine.