DEATH SONGS: TEN YEARS LATER

i thought i buried everything that bloomed inside me.
the petals.
the scent.
the sun.

i salted the soil behind my ribs,
shoveled ash over the tender places,
told the bees to leave me be.

winter learned my name by heart.
it slept in my mouth and made my breath a fog.
i spoke in frost and splinters.

still—
some seed i could not kill
kept counting the days in the dark.

you came with dirt under your nails,
not a sermon, not a cure—
just a cup of water and a look that said: stay.

you pressed your thumb into my palm
and i felt a small heat wakening,
a green thought turning toward a rumor of light.

i swore i was done with gardens.
i swore the body could be all stone.
but promises made to fear are brittle.

first, a stalk through the gravel.
then, the stubborn yellow of a face
that would not stop looking at the sky.

the wind tried to rename me salt.
you read me as soil.
the petals understood.

now the ghosts keep handing me seeds.
now the bees return, gentle as memory.
now the sun stands at the threshold and knocks.

i thought i buried everything that bloomed inside me—
but the ground remembered what i forgot,
and kept it safe until i could come home.

so when the sunflowers bloom again,
do not ask how i deserved them.
ask only how they knew where to find me.

and if the light feels wrong on your skin,
if the old cold begs you back—
stand here with me a while.

the garden knows our names.
the flowers bend to hear them.
the sun keeps its vows at last.