Cali jasmine does not beg,
nor bow—
its roots are veins
threading through scorched silence,
seeking nothing but the pull of water
whispering below.
Ash drapes its shoulders like memory,
and still,
it flowers.
Petals tilt to the absent sun,
white as a breath held too long,
fragile as the edges of a dream
that refuses to be forgotten.
This is not defiance,
but a quiet insistence—
a life that leans into endings,
and grows anyway.
