They are the only ones who color me. I am the only one who paints them. A dozen violet orchids with chartreuse stems and raspberry centers. A dozen who still grow in winter. A dozen reasons keep moving. From my roof I can smell them, but Mother just tells me to get down. 

Their beauty is a mask. They whisper sweet secrets under my feet. They wrap my ankles in promises they long to keep and words they swear they’ll fill and never quit their love. This is how they sing. 

If I forget why I’m here they wallow in thick saltwater, dropping their petals and reaching for light. Sing, sing, sing they warble while I weep. They giggle. 

When I am too weak and too shattered to keep singing, when I am a small drop on a drenched leaf, I look toward the light. When there is no vow left to say. A dozen who bloom despite the tears. A dozen whose only pledge is to stay.