Bloodroot

The day could start with fire—
torchlight and copper pot

flickering on the other side
of a pollen-dusted window, 

the rhythmic clicks
of a grass-carrying wasp

building its crevice-nest 
at sunset. But then 

you would miss 
this solitary, fragile flower, 

the one with a sunrise center,
the way it opens 

like a palm or a cup,
spilling moonlight 

before closing back up.