Bloom

… you coulda had a bad day - instead you had more life to live…

Yesterday my travels

were threaded with

closures, dead ends,

turn‑arounds,

going far out of my way

to reach simple places.

---

At first — son of a bitch —

frustration.

Then a settling,

a steadying,

as a person approaches:

an accident,

bicyclist meets car,

no one getting through.

I call ahead —

can my plans adapt?

They say yes. Be safe.

We’ll see you when you arrive.

And my empty light comes on,

a small amber confession.

My father’s voice rises —

never let it fall below half a tank —

a rule born of his youth,

of scarcity, of machines

that belonged to another era.

I carry it still,

a relic stitched into me,

even though the world

and the car

have changed.

---

Instead of the film of my youth,

a series of unfortunate events,

I stay calm, steady,

even as the back of my mind

plays catastrophe.

So I research my car,

find the real travel times,

have a snack, hydrate,

continue.

---

Arrive.

Find a space.

And then —

another mismatch,

another person who knows

nothing of my needs.

Another set of closures,

dead ends,

turn‑arounds.

So I turn around.

I adapt.

I steady.

I am a breath,

a bloom opening slowly.

And when there is not

enough sun, water, light —

or when the bloom

is simply not ready —

I do not falter.

I stay closed,

protecting myself

as humans do

until it is time

to open in full glory.

The rose knows this.

The orchid.

The bird of paradise.

The peony —

dignified,

less complicated than a dahlia,

sturdier than a sweet‑pea,

yet its scent

a sensory ovation.

When it unfurls,

magnificence.

Bloom.

On my way home

I try the bridge

and see cars turning around,

a woman approaching,

another bicyclist meets car.

Even with signs

and billboards of caution,

the city is threaded

with cyclists —

some drifting through the world

as if rules were wind,

as if cars were shadows.

I feel the torn place in me —

the frustration,

the danger,

and yet the soft unfurling

for the lives that collide

when bicycle meets car.

---

And somewhere in the back of me

a faerie I once danced beside

still waltzes in the flowers —

gone now to the same collision

I pass on the road.

A soft ache,

a petal folded into the day.

---

And yet my heart

doesn’t close.

It unfurls

for what will come

to those affected

when bicyclist meets car —

even me,

on the frayed edges

of the bloom

learning closures,

dead ends,

turn‑arounds,

going out of my way

until I reach the place

where I unfurl again.

Home.

---

I notice the peony

in magnificent splendor,

stop, inhale its scent.

Stopping to smell the roses

is not a misnomer —

it is a return,

a presence,

a moment for me.

From the fresh one

on the black shelf

to the paper peony

and the three small ones

that called to me

at different times —

all in bloom.

Cinco de Mayo.

Beltane.

Spring showers

bringing May flowers.

And I step into the shower

to wash away the day —

firelight,

classical violin,

aromatic scrubs,

hot rain falling.

I sit,

the water massaging my back,

cocooning inward,

letting the drain

take the closures,

dead ends,

turn‑arounds,

all the ways I went

out of my way.

And when I open my eyes

through steam and strings,

I see it —

the shimmer of pink

through the curtain,

a flower opening again.

Bloom.

Shower brings

flower.

Bloom.

Daniel / Kana

5/9/26

Why Connecting Communities?

Here’s who I am;

who are you?

Kana writes from the body — from queer lineage, contemplative practice, and the slow disciplines of self‑care. His work is rooted in the Northwest Radical Faeries, rose culture, and long-standing devotional traditions. He serves on editorial boards, mentors emerging writers, and works as a community connector and naqib, tending to stories and relationships with attention and relational stewardship. He currently works in community mental health, though his primary vocation remains writing, service, and community care.

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…. toss me some coin…