The shadow of the aloe plant
Is as still as the sunlight
That crawls along the wall.

Early winter,
Trouble brewing.
Do I know what the **** I'm doing?
When we meet again will it be clear?
Do I know what I'm doing here?

Spoons still drying,
Sunshine waning,
The once inviting dance is draining.
Caring for myself,
More than someone else,
is not something I find entertaining.

But when I'm cooking,
When I'm cold,
I connect with something very old.
Memories become old as well
In a backwards kind of parallel

To do lists need belief suspension,
I don't have my drivers license,
What do I know about rear suspension.

I need to get my driver license,
But first I need to change my name.
Tomorrow's a bitter pill to swallow,
I don't think I like this game.

You and I were the tree and the vine,
I was yours and you were mine.
I often felt that I was the tree,
for all the roots that came under me.
You were the vine, beautiful and light;
I loved you best for never clinging too tight.
You said that all along it was I who clung,
and then and there something died where I hung.
This tree of mine had changed its leaves,
and grown contempt within its eaves.
And I, the vine and parasite
was bid a prompt and cold goodnight.
By the time I fell to the forest floor,
life as I knew it was no more.

I soak up rays of warmth from the sun
as it covers my limbs like a blanket.
I am calm, content, and curious.
My curiosity is unbridled,
and my creativity is bolstered
by the satisfaction I feel.
I wish to grow and reach new heights.
This freedom comes from the sun,
as my leaves photosynthesize its warmth into energy.
My stem reaches taller, and new leaves unfurl.
I create a new version of myself with every sunny day.

Tulips
Common, trusted, beloved.
Planted in gardens, gifted in joy,
Welcomed without a second thought.

And then—me.
Fragile, fleeting, misplaced.
Sought only in sorrow, left to wither,
A beauty seen too late,
A name too easily forgotten.

Lycoris Radiata.

Sickly sprout glimpses light.
Strangles elder sister and
starves elder brother, crawling upward
through gasps of shade. Up,
up. Outstretched, not ******.
This one shrinks not
from probing creepers. This one
clutches clods of dirt in spindly arms,
twines about cage-wires thirsting
for sap. Roots,
inevitably. At last,
drizzle murmurs greetings
on fresh leaves
as they drink of sunrise.

I'll hand over this flower,
Any day, any given time.
To remind you with,
The Magnolia in my name.

And,

The Magnolia in my hand,
A gift, yours to take,
The symbol of our tomorrow,
Our forevermore.