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Love is the dry dirt from which nothing sprouts
but it is also the fleeting bloom of the tulip in late March.
I am the gardener who can barely work a hose
and who sits with clenched, fistfuls of soil
frustrated and wilting - resolved and willing
for there are more seeds to tend
for there are more seasons to spend
in diligent toil and diligent hope.
How indeed could we find beauty in the dying whisper of Spring
if not for the cherry blossoms gentle cough almost lost to the wind?
That accentuates its delicate form as it lays its body against my skin.
While I clutch onto its arms - legs - waist
with hands colored green and sprouting leaves,
longing and scared - crying and prepared
But it is also the fleeting bloom of the tulip in late March,
Love, the dry dirt from which nothing sprouts.
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