My father floated over a field of them once in a dream
He says it was a sign and instantly
I was undeniably tethered to a flower my mother had planted in the front garden that spring

Now they crawl up from the dirt every year
Leaves unfurling and thin bodies stretching rectilinear
I'll pause when walking by to envy their sturdy hulking frames
Hold their blooms in tender hands and repeat our names

Are they the message or am I
Was it a field of Lilies or iterations of me across time
Stout arms embracing the next for millions of miles
Parched throats opened upwards waiting for revival

When I pluck your head to display in a small vase on my window sill--
Is it your green shoulders that feel the pain at the neck?
Is it my bulging eyes that watch your wilting fight
to live but another day or two in the corner of my room?