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.