I moved it off the porch today,
where sun falls hard and wide.
The *** is cracked, the roots are weak.
Still, something waits inside.
The blooms were bruised, a weathered pink,
like lips that lost their say.
Still, one had cupped the morning rain
and hadn’t looked away.
My back cried out. I crouched and worked,
hard knuckles in the dirt.
I cut the dead, I turned the soil,
poured water where it hurt.
I set it by the cedar rail,
where shade and heat align.
Still stiff. Still sore. You’re gone. That holds.
It’s standing. So am I.
Jul 19, 2025
Jul 19, 2025 at 1:49 PM UTC
I moved it off the porch today,
where sun falls hard and wide.
The *** is cracked, the roots are weak.
Still, something waits inside.
The blooms were bruised, a weathered pink,
like lips that lost their say.
Still, one had cupped the morning rain
and hadn’t looked away.
My back cried out. I crouched and worked,
hard knuckles in the dirt.
I cut the dead, I turned the soil,
poured water where it hurt.
I set it by the cedar rail,
where shade and heat align.
Still stiff. Still sore. You’re gone. That holds.
It’s standing. So am I.
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