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.

He died without warning.
Lives fractured
From failing
Air bags,
Ten in all that
Deployed, did not protect.

It happened
Pleading to un do.
On a sidewalk in a fetal position, pleading.

Nothing, no money
Millions or more
Will ever bring him back, but hate takes up residence in your soul, burn until you can't move from the scar tissue.

He would not want hate. He would not want you in this state.

I see it so in every
Red fruit garnished
On the Serviceberry
This year
Three years after your death. I hear his echos, it will be ok.

It's all I have to give
Watered by tears.

as i am nearing the edge of our fading sun,
as our world is one big aquarium,
- full of life...
      me, surviving the best i can, alone...
i thought i never long for that new life
born between my seeds,
all i knew is that i am okay, alone...
     no plan to plant,
just a fading list of the evading daydream...
     it's okay - everythings alright,
there's time, still,
   even if it never arrive,
     it's still alright
         for all the right
         reasons...

I felt a wave of love from the trees,
Green in their growth and sweet in their fruit.
I simply asked, "Would you help me wipe away this soot?
The soot that clings to my heart and darkens all that should feel lovely."

They said, "Come near and take a seat.
Can you feel our roots growing beneath?
Will you intertwine your breath with mine?
And when you weep, will you touch the soil and feel our heartbeat?"

To the giants of the land, I replied,
"I can feel your love, know your knowledge, and see your vision.
You are the serenity that bridges earth and sky,
While I am but a morsel of your magic that will surely pass before you die.

The power you possess in your filtering form
Creates life for those who here are born.
But I ask, who will you be when you return
to the sacred place we all deeply yearn?"

I have sat in this one spot
for so long
I have grown roots deep in the ground here.

"Tell me, is it better to rip myself out
yet leave a piece of me
buried

Or is it better to stay,
and grow leaves of old age
in the same dirt
I was born in?"

I pray at night to the God who planted me
and all I hear back
is the wind.

the arching arboretum anticipates my alliterations
telling too timeless tales of Latin language
binomial botany begins by being barbarously bleak
dioecious dogwoods dance doing dainty droops
leaves lie lamely, larking like sweet starlight shine.

I am a plant.
I am a thistle.
                   Cirsium arvense.
                           Creeping thistle.
When you first see me I am a beautiful, colourful flower. But if you come closer, you will notice two things.
1. I can ***** you. My needles are few and nearly invisible, but very sharp.
2. I am not ONE flower. I am a cluster of a hundred tiny flowers.
            I am possibility.


My opportunities were not the best when I was a seedling.
                The ground was dry and the sun burning.
However, as the forest around me, the sunlight that hit me directly lessened. The rain made the ground more fertile.

The ground is still too dry. I need more moisture to live. It is difficult to see the sun at all through the dense trees.  I wish I could at least see a little bit of the sun.

I am a plant.
I am a thistle.