Inside my heart is a gardener.
She knows eventually
all seeds planted in the heart
will die. That doesn’t stop her
from planting. And on a night
when she knows it will frost—
winter, after all, comes soon—
that doesn’t stop her
from rummaging around for blankets
to cover everything in bloom.
You could just let it go,
says some other inner voice.
Nothing lasts forever.
She pauses to listen.
Perhaps all she’ll get is one more week—
one more week of lush and unruly beauty,
one more week of riotous love.
It’s late and she’s tired.
She grabs another blanket.
Damn right, she’ll fight for it.
