Garden Verses: I Open, Because She Comes

I don’t open for the sun—
 though he’s golden and full of himself,
 and oh, how he tries.

No, I open because
 she comes.
 Heavy with memory.
 Smelling like nectar already made.

She doesn’t ask.
 She lands.
 And I do not flinch.

There are a thousand others
 who pass me by—
 too fast, too polite,
 looking for something easier.

But she knows where I swell,
 where the sugar pools,
 where the heat hides
 beneath my velvet.

She climbs inside.
 Not rushed, not shy—
 like I’m a home
 she helped build
 and finally returned to.

The world is noise outside.
 Lawns.
 Laughter.
 The careless scuff of shoes.

But here, beneath her body,
 the wind stills.
 The sun holds its breath.
 And I open deeper,
 again and again,
 until I no longer remember
 what it was to be unopened.

She leaves pollen.
 Takes me with her.

And I wait.
 Wanting nothing.
 But her.