Our Februaries are always
portraits-pretty, no matter—salvaged by
peach-kissed sunsets; behold: we,
the maidens with grapewine-scented ankles,
playing across the libertine sadness of our
We let our souls find marriage in the
constancy, rigid as land.
Our starless 2 A.M.s are
Tenthearts pitched on
conversations about flowers
and what they meant,
at least for us.
In these seasons, we grow,
despite the absence of a man’s firm hand.
We looked over at the ripening fields
of love awaiting, perhaps due for
As we stand still, joyful, for the friendship,
like warm rainfall, in June.
‘Ashen-faced Gardeners’ by dardenitaaa