expecting them to grow
even when they're buried
under the snow. Even as they hang
limp in her hand, even when

their heads are drooping
and colors are bland. She takes them
inside her home. Feeds them sweet
honeycomb. She sings to them

like a starling, coos and awws
and calls them darling. Plants them in
her fertile soil, only to see them
recoil. Day after day the petals fall. She lies

among them, weeps and sprawls. Remembers
the spring when they were lush. The memories
she has of her crush she stores in a drawer
as potpourri. And lives to write and tell the story.