Sometimes I think myself clever, a genius in horticulture, harvesting perpetual fleeting moments. A muted gardener. Watering without promise or sentiment.
When the air grows stale I can disappear (I always have), like so many ghosts or smoke A nomadic farmer.
But today I want to be old and knotted roots. stationary and permanent, nourishing and timeless, impervious to elements so that she might flourish. I want to lean hard into the wind, sway with it and bend while holding my only purchase.
And when she opens up it will be enough and maybe for the first time neither of us will be murderers of perennials.