on good days, i move fast.
faster than some men are ready for.
but you’re so delicate, they say,
such a lovely wildflower.
as wise in the ways of this world as any wildflower,
more engaged with pollen than with politics.
as hardy as delicate, rooted and propagating.
my season’s not over so fast as the flower,
though i need as much rain,
the embrace of fertile soil,
the day’s caressing sunshine.
a little wind clears the eyes.
at sunset, in the cracking soil of long drought,
i am still here,
still holding your heart,
and mine,
in an outstretched hand.

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