I am a Bouquet of Weeds

Once, I stood before you,

naked before you,

heart bleeding the vulnerability

you crave as the sun

craves the dew on

a summer morning.

The earth looks like a star

from the distance between

you and me and then and now:

now when I am the lady dressed

in the weeds of us

(us is the ghost that crawls

along the backbone of my dreams).

And in those dreams,

the drying weeds fade

from full of life

to fragile cobwebs

of seeds and stems and

beauty of the past

(the kind you could not hold).

So I will wake

and clothe myself

in the glory of a dandelion,

the silver softness of lamb’s ears,

the boldness of angel’s trumpet,

the delicacy of fairy bells

(to be held by someone with

smaller and softer hands).