You’ve seen all of her. 

Garlands she weaves like dreams: soft, silky, you. Her, dancing in the wind 

She absorbs the dampness of the earth 

by pressing her face to the ground 

and inhales broken blessings, 

unaware of the joy she brings. 

Sometimes you are reminded of when she first came to you:

tattered, ragged, subdued. 

Pieces of her dress flowing in the wind, 

a dead hyacinth clutched to her chest. 

Wilted, fraying . dried tears painted on the etches—

(you learn to love all her curves and edges.) 

She had cried so many petals onto the floor, 

a slivered art 

that you had to pick her fractured body up 

and glue her back together: 

piece by piece, 

part by part,

with nimble fingers 

a heavy heart. 

You remember how desperately you wished the flower would bloom but it didn’t. 

The first time you love her body she flutters shyly like a virgin.

She lay under the sun’s rays, 

absorbing golden radiance, 

hues of daisies mirrored 

in her eyes 

(so warm.) 

You worry that she remembers her past and the scars she left,

but she offers a tentative smile and reaches out for 

you. forget to breathe— 

embrace her cautiously with trembling hands because you are afraid to

break her. 

like a newborn butterfly emerging 

on unsteady legs 

fluttering cautiously in the piercing summer rain 

you touch her gently. 

You close your eyes. 

Inhale. 

Exhale.

You open your eyes. 

She is there, standing in front of you, staring at her reflection—you- her- you- her- YOU. 

You are open and vulnerable, and 

so 

so 

beautiful. 

Because you are ripped and you are fractured and you are auburn-infused pastel,

the first sign of fading washed away by rainfall 

But you are also honey-nectar in wintry wonderland promises 

and ephemeral blossoms, 

magnolias blushing in mid-summer 

all the colors of spring. 

You run your fingers along your rough edges 

hold your body in your hands, 

delicately. 

(finally.) 

Feel the weight of your cracks in mirrors and scissors— 

and as you take refuge in your arms 

remember the solace you can offer.

The thing about flowers 

is that they’re never really dead. 

For how can one look at dead flowers 

without seeing stirrings of new life? 

She is pieces and fragments and you and you are in love.