Deep and Dormant Roots

Two years and four years
and six months and
three lifetimes later, we still sit
with each other.

And when we no longer can,
for fear of catching flames too hot to see,
we plant perennials around the city parks –
Ice Plant, Catmint and Blazing Stars –
and retreat to the lakefront
and the holes in the karst
where there is nowhere else soft
enough for us to dig
and wait to return
until the stars descend
into the canopy.

In my kitchen the next day,
we speak in rhizome to each other
and disinter our younger,
more bruised selves
so, so gently.

I became a machine before I met you.
I was process, program, precise,
perfect plan and principled position.

Now, I know the taste of dirt
and what complements it
and I name my new bruises,
I write poems again,
and I always have a planter of cilantro
growing on my back porch.