uprooted

in every face, a garden calls my name,

a hundred blooms that somehow look the same,

i kneel to them as if i’ve always known

the shape of petals i have never grown.

the wind is always rising through the field,

it knows exactly what i will not yield,

it threads between each stem i try to save

and teaches soft things how to misbehave.

i bend with them, i learn their fragile art,

to open wide and offer every part,

to drink the light no matter how it leaves,

to bloom for hands that never will believe.

it would be kinder just to stay in place,

to choose one patch of slow and certain grace,

but stillness feels too close to being missed,

like roots that tighten into empty fists.

so i become the pollen in the air,

a drifting yes to anyone who’s there,

i promise every passing shade of sky

that i am yours, although you won’t ask why.

the wind is always rising, always near,

it sounds like something almost said, not clear,

it pulls at every fragile thing i start

and scatters what was never theirs to part.

it tells me nothing living gets to stay,

that love is just a softer form of fray,

that petals only prove how things can break,

how beauty leans toward everything it takes.

still watch me- how i turn into the storm,

how giving feels the closest thing to warm,

each bloom i touch grows thinner at the seam,

each color fades into a borrowed dream.

and when the field is quiet, stripped and bare,

no one can name the pieces missing there,

they only say how bright it was before-

and never ask what all that brightness tore.