Tulips and Thistle

The shadow of tree buds stencil dawn against the moon. Birds begin to percolate, seemingly off in a westerly direction. 4 a.m. is not so dark.

Blushing layers become the gradient departure of night. At work, pink geranium petals fall into my hair. After taking off my shirt to shower, I find a few florid stowaways nestled in my cleavage. Soft against soft. A sweetness. Here against there. Before it's fully dawn I water the new shrubs at the back fence line.

It's cold enough for a fire. All night long a mole in the window-well chews through the new screen. We need to work something out if we are both to live in these overlapping circles.

With my hands in my dirt, a greater fidelity – an opening to that which connects to every thing. The girl said: let's just be friends. And the boy cried all night long. Tulips and thistle, no matter where we find ourselves.

Without the greenhouse work, familiar tentacles sidle and curl around the breastplate. This living parasite demands a name before its annihilation but it's hard to look at it. Rather, I can't see it. Or both. Of what import is the existence of one who only tends their own kingdom? Of what value?

Cold rain is expected all week, therefore yard work yields to internal matters. Dogs and meals and broken-hearted children wait for resolution. Lily of the Valley arrives, blooms, and fills everything I can think about with redolence. Spring opens but keeps a sweatshirt handy at all times.

Each year is different. Each month, each day. And so am I.