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Poem
O’ my dearest love,  
I gather the world’s rarest petals for you—  
Ghost Orchid fragrance lingers  
in the marsh’s quiet air  

look, love, it fades  
then rises in  
the curve of my hands  
on the curve of your hips—  
like time  
like breath
like us.  

But love is not only fleeting—  
it lingers
it deepens  
love is touch, is warmth,  
the flush of skin beneath longing hands.

Sweet Juliet Rose,  
color of the inside of your thigh  
the softest skin where my lips have been 
where time presses its thumbprint.  

Isn’t that what love is?  
The slow-blushed tender cheeks—  
the breath before
the hand resting, waiting
the bloom that knows it will fall  
but does not care.  

Yet love is more than softness—  
it survives 
even when the earth cracks  
even when the wind carries everything away.  

Love reaches—  
like roots
like thirst.  

Ghost Flower,  
desert thirst  
your name is a mouthful of wind.  

But devotion—  
devotion is water 
is the split earth drinking.  

Roots stretch for you
drinking deep of rain
seeking the touch that finds mine—
even in dust
even in distance . 

But love does not always bloom in boldness—  
sometimes it’s the small 
fierce things that endure.  

Forget-Me-Not, 
small, fierce, sky-eyed witness—  
do you remember, love?  

First hands held,  
first inhale  
between words we never spoke 
yet always knew.  

Gentle, simple—  
forever new.  

Love is not just memory—  
it stands 
unshaken  
even when the tides rise.  

It holds firm 
radiant 
against the storms.  

Sea Dahlia 
clings to shifting sands 
salt-wind radiant—  
like us 
standing, laughing,  

when storms came 
when tides tried to take us,
when the wind called let go—  
we held.  

Freedom and devotion—  
always
always 

And when the waves recede  
love burns—  
bright, alive  
fierce as the flames that forge it.  

Fire Lily,  
you touch my eyes and I feel the burn—  
not the old hurt 
not the old flames

but the warmth 
still hot
still here.  

We walked through fire—  
our hair still scented with smoke 
our ribs lit from within.  

Yet now 
you turn to me 
golden and quiet 
still singing the love songs  
that carried us through.  

Even after fire,
our bond cools like river-stone
lays its hands upon the wound
knits the broken earth with quiet roots.  

Purple Coneflower,  
healer in the wind-lashed prairie—  
your voice, love, a balm  
a salve 

when the world ached  
and we had nothing  
but each other  
and the quiet in-between.  

Healing comfort 
silk and lace 
wild devotion  
fierce grace.  

The morning light  
caresses your face.  

In the quietude, in the frost,  
love doesn’t fade—  
it turns to the light
pulling warmth  
from even the coldest corners.  

Arctic Poppy,  
sun-seeker in endless cold—  
even in winter
even in silence
you turn to light
pull it from my heart
from my mouth  
from the frozen air between us.  

Courage,  
perseverance,  
hope and renewal—  
like florets bright on tundra’s edge 
you stand with me—  
a vow pressed 
in the palm of your soul.

When the waters rise  
love doesn’t drown—it flourishes  
lifting its florets above the flood  
finding beauty in the murk.  

Swamp Rose Mallow,  
we awaken where the water takes our ankles  
where the mud climbs our calves  
where the world says drown—  

but love  
we rise.  

We flourish in the rot 
in the rich, black silt 
our sepals soft against the flood.  

Beauty amidst adversity  
purity  
passion rooted deep  
a flower born of swamp and stream.  

Even tears, love turns into jewels.  
What falls  
what breaks  
becomes the bloom  
that carries us forward.  

Queen’s Tears,  
jewel-drinker  
rain-fed marvel—  
isn’t that us, love?  

Taking what falls 
what spills—  
sorrow turns to petals  
wounds into song.  

Regal,  
bittersweet—  
love shifting  
growing—  
with every tear  
a jewel blooms  
a love only time bestows.  

Now I lay these at your feet, my dearest love—  
this bouquet of us  
this world  
this wilderness of us—  

petals and roots.  

No vase can hold us  
no garden tame—  
we are bloom and root,  
flood and fire  
storm and stillness—  

the reaching,  
the holding,  
the promises that never let go.  

We are petals in the wind 
yet always returning—  
the vow not spoken  
but known  

the breath between words 
the light that bends toward us  
even in the dark.  

Love—  
No garden can tame us—
No wind can take us
Not what time erases
Nor what fades—
But what remains.
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