This blossom is alone, as though propped within the branches,
petals grazing the rung of limbs within the saturated space of the deciduous saplings, bare-leafed and channeling the sun like the underground roots I cannot see, but was told last summer by the arborist,
extend the circumference of what is visible.
Perhaps I notice this first red bloom because I listened to Mom, last night, when she tried to soothe with the future, said spring is around the bend, flowers, birds, the children running in the garden.
So why this grief in the morning when the camellia appears as though to declare: Hold on. You, my daughter, will see him again.