The Frost: The Night-Blooming Flower

Last month the frost came early. I watched flowers like mine torn from their stems, cast down from heights where they had tried so carefully to grow. Now I am a fox, red against the snow, too visible, always watching for the sound of boots, for hands that pull up roots to see if they're the kind worth keeping. But even the fox curls into itself for warmth. Even the nocturnal flower holds water in its leaves, soft evidence that something living wants to keep on living.