[My darling is a weary traveler]
My darling is a weary traveler. Able to bloom
in the most unexpected moments, and when she does,
she sheds her tepid petals, her swirling seeds,
her wispy fluffs. She can’t keep up with me.
At such times, she sucks out my fear, poison from a wound.
Nutrients and spiritual photosynthesis.
She suspects where I’ll plant her later, but it’s rounded, antique,
blazing pots she dreams of,
a spray that does away with her pests.
A flower should be selfish, even when weary:
just get ready,
feed yourself for April’s great vertical journey,
for the spry lather of petals, for the discreet beating of roots.