He only blooms for me once or twice a year now.
His brilliant white petals reach out and just the tips brush my cheek.
We were planted in the same garden;
weeds grew and were plucked,
unsettling the earth between us,
amazingly allowing us both, at times,
We flew together,
he to Mars and myself lost to the questionable Neptune.
We always come back to the same ground;
whose weeds they were, no longer matter.
This year he bloomed as I was dying, and his gentle presence reminded me of who I am,
and who I love.
Once again our seasons have fallen out of sync,
only catching each other for a moment,
Before or after birth.
Before or after death.
He flies all the time now,
from shore to shore
from woman to woman…
I am once again firmly planted,
purging my weeds, pruning my violet petals.
Still, between us there is love,
there is respect,
there is understanding.
There are no words for the connection beyond environment.
There is this comfort -
knowing that in our last autumn we will find our roots,
enclose each other in our withered leaves,
and shelter each other from the coming winter.