Love Is Not A Flower
He thought love
was a flower. No, love
is a botanical garden
with dull winters and tending
during heat waves and
snowstorms and droughts
and miles of weeds.
Love is buds changing colors
crossing each lily pad
to find a light in their eyes
on dewy mornings
more revolutionary
than the spinning sun. So young,
he shows me a picture
of his lover and lusts over soft
petals curving her body
unaware of thorns she’s retracted
until he’s planted his seed.
I can’t tell him, young sprout,
don’t pick a boo, pick a bouquet.
Don’t pick a girl, pick a gardener
who’s worked with enough dirt
to help you grow. No,
I don’t tell him. I hand him
the same shovel I was given at that age,
and I say, “dig.”