she is soft like grass and honeybees; you are born from wishbones and popsicle stick jokes. she grows lavender and sweet peas in her garden. you drink from the hose and she laughs. it sounds like fireflies.
in september she wears burgundy and gold. you wear your heart in your throat. when the aster blooms, you tell her that it reminds you of her. you don’t tell her that everything else does, too.
it doesn’t snow here. that doesn’t stop her from sliding down hills on lunch trays, tumbling breathless to your feet. she grabs your wrist. she can feel your pulse even through your gloves, she says, and tucks a violet behind your ear. you can see her breath.
it is time to thaw. you wear honey chapstick and bring her lilacs. she is new and sweet and gentle, you kiss her behind the church on easter. she is patient, she is kind. you are finally in bloom.