seeding.

little leafies rustle differently these days

as if your absence
has affected their
physical space
to dance

as if they, too, know
this world is always
fading in out of life

as if they, too, succomb
to their own inevitabilities

as if they, too, see no progression

as if they, just like i,
cannot accept a substitute
of a new season

"she's having a really hard time."
they expect it to fade.
but the ticking clock
every.where.i.go.
suggests differently.

i don't forget you're gone.

i have this dream:

you've died.
there are pots of geraniums
in the bathtub.
the sink.
on the counter.
the kitchen table.
the sidewalk.
you lie flat.
motionless.
you see us.
we can't see you.
we busy ourselves
with:
nurturing the geraniums,
gathering their seeds,
wetting their fertilized soil,
shooing away the guests
that continue to bring
the geraniums.
and then they die:
first the magenta,
then the purple,
last the red.
and we lament,
as each one dies.
we weep.
we water.
they all wither
they're crunchy.
we weep.
we water still.
we remember:
we have the seeds.
we start over.