​Where We Bloom

​The earth breathes out a soft, damp heat
rich with the scent of afternoon rain and turned soil
On the sun-baked sill
the geranium rests
velvet red, a blush of tender pink
lavender fading soft into white
each petal kissed with a faint streak
like a brush held by a hesitant hand
It blooms without asking if it should
Even in a chipped clay pot
it leans its small green chest against the breeze
smelling sharply of sun, wild moss, and life
Not all strength is stone
sometimes it is just a stem holding fast
​Beside it, the hydrangea drinks the pale morning air
Clusters of soft cream, cool lime
blue sinking slowly into violet
It shifts its hues quietly, effortlessly
untouched by the rush beyond the garden wall
​Pull closer
Listen to the quiet rustle of leaf against leaf
the sweet, dry aroma of opening buds
mingling with the scent of your shoulder beside mine
There is a slow rhythm here
the cool shadow, the golden light
the pause where your hand finds mine
​Dark earth turns to color
A bud softens into a flower
A flower softens into a memory
Their briefness isn’t a sorrow
they know the breeze will come
they know the petals must eventually drift away
Still, in the warmth of this single morning
they take the air, the light, the quiet earth and simply open