Blossom

I was still mostly brown
when they came.
Beds marked and waiting,
stakes pressed into me like guesses.
The frost had only just loosened
its last argument.

They stepped carefully at first.
As if I might flinch.

She brushed my rosemary by accident,
and the scent surprised her.
He noticed.
That’s how it started.

I’ve seen people before, of course.
Hands, seasons, promises made aloud.

They read my tags.
Laughed at the word perennial.

I was waking slowly.
Tulips still closed tight,
holding their color like a secret.
The roses offered sticks and thorns,
no performance yet.

They walked my rows twice.
The second time closer.
When their shoulders touched,
nothing dramatic happened.
A sparrow stayed put.
The soil stayed warm.

She knelt to look at a shoot
barely brave enough to show itself.
He knelt too,
though there was nothing for him to see.
I felt their weight and did not mind.

By the time they stood,
light had changed its angle.
I began again.