” The creation of love, ( This is not falling in love)
Planted, Watered, Groomed, Nameless.”
Who needs fireworks when you have this to read.
The flesh of my lover’s body
Still taut within memory’s touch
That distance shaped my femininity
Her sweet, sweet, large lips, appeared
As a succulent rooted plant
Which allowed me into her meadow
To traverse the yard, to stretch within the clover
Tasting her dandelion, a wine, sweet weed,
The fuzz of her stalk still stuck to my tongue
I was loved for gathering the morning dew
Loose in her garden, leaning with the spin of Earth
I couldn’t stop growing. This she knew.
but now, cut clean as a thistle, a ragwort
Decayed, clipped, mowed down to a level field—
Away from dirt, my girlhood crumbled into dirt clods.
The color of my blossom strained a shady purple
The spiny leaves of my effort condemned me
Now, In the compost bin, I spoke babble
To ivy, buttercups, and sore, sore sorrels
Who claimed they were willing to stay
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