Garden Verses: I Touch The Bloom Like Memory

I do not fly. I fall in curves,
 crashing soft into purple spires,
 tumbling gold from petal to petal—
 dizzy, full, humming the earth’s old song.

The sun fingers my fuzzed back
 like it remembers me
 from last season’s bloom.

And maybe it does.
 Maybe this heat is an ache we shared
 when the wind was less cruel
 and the clover more open-mouthed.

I land heavy on a lip
 where others passed before—
 their scent like prayers
 pressed into velvet.

Inside, I burrow.
 I do not knock.
 The bloom parts for me,
 tender and already throbbing with sugar.

Pollen clings like longing.
 I wear it without shame.

Somewhere, a man watches.
 He thinks I am work.
 He is wrong.

I am praise.
 I am the moan that rises
 when the green world calls my name.
 I am old joy with wings on.

And the flower?
 She is always ready.