Digging dirt

My hand

Still stained

From digging dirt

Moves inch by inch

Across the crisp

White surface

Of the sheet

My labored breath,

Rasping still

From my stumbled rush

Up the stairs,

I am like a bee

Drawn to an open flower

I feared might close

Before I could come

Softness leads to softness

My fingers have

 no right to feel

My stain glistening

on every space

I touch,

My fingers touching

Softness

I can’t believe exist,

I leave my flaws

In this flower

A silver dew

Dripping off

Each still

Opened petal