Wild strawberries stained our lips a rustic ruby,
leaving traces of crimson on the flowers we kissed.
Dirt painted our fingernails as we worked the soil,
bringing life back to the dilapidated garden.
He and I spent our childhood tending flowers,
living off soil and sunlight with them. Chanting
our spells; prayers for silver rain.
Parental neglect would have destroyed
weaker beings, but we were rooted
to each other and to our secret world.
As the seasons claimed their rotations
of victims, we soon noticed we grew
as the roses did, climbing tall. Hunched
over our rainbow of flora, I found his grey eyes.
A play rug of grass became a bed of passion,
as flowers tilted down their voyeuristic heads.
We made love like we grew flowers, with gentle
touches and soft promises of what the world holds
if you’d only take my hand and let me show you.