There lies a small red planter

within the hollows of my chest:

Though it forbids all weeds to wander,

it still festers, nonetheless.

For the dirt inside my lungs

once froze in seasons past,

and the sun had not burned bright enough,

transforming beauty to barren casts.

But on this night I feel a stir—

not a bang, but yet, a whimper—

your hands held earth and held it close,

and buds bloom within the planter.

-

And as I listen to your breathing

whilst you tend the grove once more,

your soul sobs raindrops across my chest

and my heartstring roots are torn.