Xerarch

by HIBAH SHABKHEZ

Seven whorls of stiffened cloth on plastic 
Twigs, the white rose laughed at my windowsill,
Bright as a true-born child of spring. The thick
   Silence gave it roots of clay, sad and still
Mires to swallow its smiles. The silence fell
Like late snows wilting the first leaves of spring,
Crept through the cloth’s proud undeadness to dwell 
   In and wither the flower with its sting. 

We fought, Silence and I, unto the last
Laughing petal of the little white rose;
Battled with venom like scorpions cast
Into flame, as the thrawn xerarch that grows
And thrives in defiance of sand and scree;
So here I stand, proclaiming its victory 
     In speech.