one
when--

when did from dry broken soil

and bitter cold air

did a seed begin to grow?

was it when the rain 

trickled down the siding

beneath the rocks,

into the dirt?

when did nothing become something--

a root pushed through the cracks

then a leaf to the top,

and against the bitter end of winter, 

it had to fight just to stay alive.

oh little flower,

a hyacinth blue as a clear sky, 

however, against every odd, did you survive?

from nothing

came a flower.

and from the same barren soil-

the nothing that stayed

by the blue hyacinth’s side

-a violet hyacinth began to bloom.

hello

whispered the blue

do you like the cold?

who likes the cold?

the second asked.

well, i do. 

why? doesn’t the cold hurt you too?

the violet bloom asked, shivering in the wind.

the wind nipped at the petals of blue.

of course the cold hurt, 

it burned,

sometimes it hurt so much

she wished for it all to end.

but blue watched as the creatures,

huddled side by side,

the humans laughing by fire light--

of course the cold hurt,

but with the struggle of the cold,

they learned a new way to be alive--

blue would not know,

it is beautiful to hold a loved one close,

or that in the burning embers of a flame,

a smile takes an entirely new shape. 

yes, it hurts, but from pain, many good things come too. 

finally said blue. 

you’ll wilt before you’ve even finished to bloom, your petals will rot, your roots will stop, 

oh blue, why not, for once, think of you?

violet swayed in the breeze, it tugging at her petals too. 

come close, do what the creatures do.

she said, tilting towards her violet friend.

you’re madness is not contagious, is it?

but violet did not wait for an answer before leaning in too.

perhaps the cold is not so cruel. 

no?

no, perhaps not when i am cold with you.

two
pitter patter 

splitter splatter

the sound of the rain--

from the wasteland by the siding

of a century-old home

two flowers-friends-grew--

hyacinths thrown into the world, 

by the crumbling siding

out the window of an emptied room

left all alone to learn how to bloom--

yet a blue flower, loyalty unbound,

ensured the violet beside her

would feel loved down to her roots beneath the ground.

pitter patter

splitter splatter

the sound of rain.

violet, do you like the rain, or does it drive you insane?

blue asked.

who does not like the rain? you?

violet knew her beloved friend--

the only friend she had,

a friend she’d come to need,

blue, the only sign of life as far as violet could see

--how she saw the world in ways violet never really knew.

to hate the rain, violet would not put it past blue.

no, i love the rain, and i wanted to share that love.

blue swayed; the wind had gone

the constant showers in its stead.

but blue still swayed to be near her friend

share? share your love? it is not a thing- love.

violets petals turned up in discontent.

then tell me, what it is that vibrates in the air 

what pushes me towards you when it’s cold-

a feeling

the pesimist persists

no! a force. a thing! if my roots could be ripped up, to you i would run, only for you, i would run!

blue could persist too

blue, what even is the difference--

a feeling and a force? there is none.

pitter patter.

you feel the rain, does that make it any less a thing?

splitter splatter.

you can touch the rain. 

something grows. 

and i can touch you--

and that is love.

violet wonders, does blue know love? 

is love something you can touch?

and you’d share it with me?

blue’s petals sprang out

filled with a feeling; a thing.

dragging from her roots to the tip of her blooms.

i’d give it to you. 

that much, blue always knew.

you cannot touch love, learned violet,

but you can let it touch you.

three
summer gave way,

a single tree had shed all its leaves

summer fell to fall.

is this the end of it all?

not all life had gone

not yet.

two hyacinths

violet who thrived, unknowing

as blue died.

is this the end of it all?

asked violet again.

perhaps.

finally blue replied. 

blue’s petals had begun to shrivel and yellow,

she stretched her roots toward the old home

away from her friend for the first time ever

searching for soil violets roots had yet to roam.

soil to call her own

blue was not mad, she was not even sad

blue felt empty

the sun had gone

and she did not remember how to love the cold.

when the wind nipped at her leaves

it was all she could do to breathe.

and sometimes, to do that is to leave.

violet, i’d give you all my love,

but what if i have none?

blue whispered, petals rattling with her speech

you are full of love!

violet cried

you love the rain 

the soil had dried. 

you love the cold!

not since she’d grown old

you love-

was it too much to say? how bold could she be?

you love-

me? violet thought but did not speak.

what if i do not love?

blue asked. 

she was no longer blue violet began to see.

while violet had thrived

blue had died

what if i am already gone? 

crossed t’s, dotted i’s

to wonder if it’s too late

was to seal her own fate.

till the last petal fell--

violet did not mean to

she did mean to take all the love and life

she did not mean to suck it dry

she did not want to watch blue die

blue

she called, one last time

blue did not respond, 

there were no petals left,

there was no blue, no green,

only a brittle stick

and yet, into violet

the broken brittle stick leaned

she was too tired to speak

had no love left to leave

but left in her roots

even when she’d been hurt

she knew it to be true

violet, i really loved you.

but i cannot love both you and me.

four
the old empty home lay wait

and finally came the day

a truck full of boxes

hearts full of love

and a girl with wild blue hair--

she claimed the room to the left.

it had a broken old window,

and that side of the house rotted in the shade

she took a rag to the window

and paint to the siding

she fixed it all up,

her forever room, forever residing

she stuck her head out the window 

to get a look at the view

there was not much to see,

winter had waned but still life was minimal

a lonely tree, nothing else?

“oh hello!”

the wild blue haired girl beamed

one little flower, a purple as bright as can be.

“this home is so sad, so lonely. in that way it reminds me of me,” she said to the flower,

“oh little thing, i’m so far from home.”

the girl said, memories flooding her head.

“i miss the meadows, and i miss my friend.” 

the girl sighed and pulled her head back in

she shut the window,

how rediculois, talking to a flower, she said. 

box by box she unpacked her old life

a life she’d deamed dead.

her friend said she would text,

but she did not wait,

for her friend made a lot of promised that were never kept

her old life, washed up in the stream

tossed in turned

nothing but a pile of leaves in the yard

the pile mother demanded she discard.

“you’ll love it here!” she’d been told.

but i loved it there!

she loved her one friend.

her friend who would rarely text

and rarely respond

but what they had, to that the girl held on

“she’s not good for you,” said the girl’s mom

“she hardly even talks to you”

but weren’t we once kids on the swingset

each other; all we knew?

we grew apart a little, so what?

she was my best friend

and i had to leave her too

the blue haired girl walked towards the siding

“hello,” she said to the flower

“you must be the new neighbor!”

have i lost my mind? the girl thought, flowers don’t speak!

“hello?” the voice spoke again,

 she turned around, it was not a flower, but a girl that it’d been.

“yes,” the blue haired girl answered

“i’m violet,” the stranger said, 

“since you’re new, i thought we could be friends!” violet smiled in a way the girl’s best friend never did

not since they were on the swingset just kids.

her old life was dead,

her friend was not a good friend.

“yes, i’d like that.” she said with a smile

it was time to let go of old hurt

she realized for the first time in a while.