The moon lurks in the shadows as
the sun disappears in a pretentious, colourful din.
We wide-eyed children of stardust watch
shadows crawl among the grass.

Aloe, wormwood, and columbine,
vibrant in the brash light of day,
are swallowed by the void,
alongside rue, creeping willow, and fennel.

The moon seeds pansies in our minds.
Visions of celandine ache to bloom.
The scent of witch-hazel inspires
crocuses to take root in our bosoms.

The wind ripples through the trees and
winged seeds whisper prophecies of
honey suckle and amaranth. We throw
ivy to the wind and breathe in constellations.

When the sun rises, muted by our madness,
you’re gently weaving mallow into my braid
while a marigold peeks out from behind your ear.
Yet begonia and black roses bloom at our feet.

Our childhood gardens overflow with primrose and lilac.
Armed only with a bushel of poorly cut borage, our illusion shatters.
An infestation of morning glory and bellflower choke our innocent buds.
We weep over the decay, wishing for only poppies.

The violets may have all withered, my love,
but aster and ambrosia will
accompany you when your bed
overflows with funeral cypresses.