I moved it off the porch today,
where sun falls hard and wide.
The *** is cracked, the roots are weak.
Still, something waits inside.
The blooms were bruised, a weathered pink,
like lips that lost their say.
Still, one had cupped the morning rain
and hadn’t looked away.
My back cried out. I crouched and worked,
Hard knuckles in the dirt.
I cut the dead, I turned the soil,
poured water where it hurt.
I set it by the cedar rail,
where shade and heat align.
Still stiff. Still sore. You’re gone. That holds.
It’s standing. So am I.