she holds them, cupped in dirty hands
raised up to the light
palmsful of blossoms, fuschia spilling over
and the scent of honey, of myrrh.
how can it be, she asks
that this treasure grew
from that tangle of thorns?
i put them in water, cut-glass winks in
touching velvet petals, fingers trembling
i remember other treasure
the roots of which twine in painful thorns
how beautiful, that which is born
in bitter, piercing weeds