Perennial
I do not die
I fall.
Each spring I split the earth
press my green throat through cold, absent soil
offer color
to a garden starved for beginnings.
They find each other near me
hands brushing in my shade
laughter taking root between ribs.
My pollen clings
They carry it on their sleeves.
Soon, ivy knots itself to brick
Roses lean open-mouthed into air.
And I cut at the stem
sap bright on the wound,
feed the ground
that fattens their forever.
By winter I am rumor and root,
threading myself in the dark
until nothing is left but the memory of bloom.
No one remembers
which flower began it.
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