Email Poem

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Poem


I will weep when you whither.
Soft, purple petals dried to ash in august sun,
Sweet nectar plucked away before I can smell your honey.
Before I can taste your grace,
Hold you to my face and pour my love into your cup like affirmations 

Do I hold you close to my chest as you die?
Or turn away, I dither,
Are you worth it? A life so lost, a life just begin.

My sweet alyssum,
You grow through the cracks of a rocky shore.
His sweet relief,
Soft leaves coat sharp edges of what was once a chore,

My sweet alyssum,
The smell of ocean’s on the air.
His sweet relief,
Will he let you go, or will he tend and care?

Gentle hands scrape at earth
They spread soil, catch light
Yet despite their care each year you die.

My hands are not gentle,
They break roots, sever stems.
Would I only hurt more if I dared to try?

My sweet alyssum 
So new in a garden, perennial and right.
Could you bloom again
If we somehow learned how to catch light?

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