he makes me dream of gardens.
full of petals, so delicate; weary.
blades of grass brushing passed the ankles,
soft and rigid.
the garden is beautiful; tricky.
from the first frost, to the last wither.
a steady beat can break,
in the heart of the garden; it's bitter.
bruised knees and tired eyes,
all for tender care to the garden.
too many species, not enough.
too much color, not enough.
many suns can kiss the petals,
many people can praise,
forgetting that my garden is meant to give life,
not to take.
so when he makes me dream of gardens,
fear grows from within.
will i grow to weaken, or to bloom.
to die, or to remain,
in the beautiful existence that resides
in this sacred womb.
