Nyctinasty

My melancholy blooms in the snow,
In acrid winter white.
Sunless, the taproots fester,
the stems slough and vexed,
I lay under anemophilous skies.
Nyctinasty lids my eyes,
a pale imitation of rest,
beckoning genesis, even as I grow into
the wake of dormition.
I grow, I fade,
buried, bound, budded.
Waiting, I linger.
I can wait some more.