gardens

A lot of what we saw was dead. After the studies
had been conducted, and stems left barren,
sucked of all nutrient. You told me

you didn’t know how to care for plants,
and I don’t know why it was that moment
I felt so in sync with you, so much the same.

I forgot the name of the hydrangea: thought
chrysanthemum, thought hyacinth. There’s
no word for what I know how to say

in my mother’s language. There’s a word for
the plant deprived of life, browned, brittle.
And it’s like that, my protectiveness of self

and how I refuse to be tied down—
and because I’d just parted with another much
less kind than you, but how comfortable

to joke around, guess the edges of some rising
tension, something beautiful blooming. In truth,
it seems everyone, you, and the other

who I visited conservatories with—
there’s something alive in me that I can’t
see, but like a faint scent it lingers firmly

in the air and tells you the deep, earth-bound
knowledge you need to know. I will try
not to be sad, not to be lonely. Like the holly

misplaced in Ohio, I’ll have to leave someday.
Like the two chairs awkwardly facing each other;
I’ll look right into the eyes of my kaleidoscopic mind.