Abloom

I see you seeing me. I know you are a flourishing gift. Do you know what I am? What we could be… (for each other)? You, growing through brick walls and urban filth. Me, knowing what it is to be… (you and me). We are weirds of nature, abloom.

a wild thing—
city grown daisy,
me with you

I see you seeing me, but know not what you are… until you grow deeper in me. You see, a sprouting thing rarely shows its true face. Not before trust takes root. Not before desire grows into more. Never (not ever) before two taste what they could be, abloom.

a fresh leaf
always needs sunlight,
I want you

You see me seeing you. My fingertips reach for your extended hand. My wicked grin matches your knowing smile. We touch. We feel. We tremble. We are, abloom…

touch a bloom,
and feel his wilds spring
as you fall

.
a wee note…
– While keying random thoughts on my phone, I accidentally typed “abloom”. When autocorrect didn’t show its disdain, I flew to the dictionary (I knew the word had to do with blooming, but I wanted specifics). The dictionary said abloom means “in bloom; blossoming; flowering”. I like it… a lot. Naturally, I had to feed it to a poem (or three).
– Linked to dVerse ~ Open Link Night 200

I Shall Dream You and Write You a World

I woke up dream-drunk… my skull full of worlds with walls made of words and wants that demand to be written into a tale. Between my eyelids and sleep, I watched two slick shadow-clad bodies frolicking in a pond that was mostly mud.

Still half-asleep, I reached for a notepad I keep next to my bed, and scribbled the first three lines of this post. I didn’t want to forget the dance… or the mud. And I didn’t. The dream was in my mind as I watered my plants, as I waited for the sun to kiss my grin, as I sipped my passion fruit tea, as I typed these words, thinking, Don’t worry, my muddy sweets, I shall dream you and write you a world. Soon…

Speaking of dreams, writing and other things I love, my passiflora is budding…

my passion-
flower dreams summer
in my hand

…my mango plant, which is proudly bushy, is sprouting new color…

…and this morning, my bean plant woke up flowering.

The world isn’t perfect, my Wicked Luvs. Most of the time, it isn’t even happy. But… if we take a deeper look, if we dare to dream wild dreams, we might just find one thing (or thirteen) that makes us smile (delightfully wicked) for a while.