The petals are the texture of his lips. The color is mine.

Autumn is here and winter is coming.Two guests I could do without.I am afraid of them, these strangersliving outside my greenhouse.They press against the glass, voyeurs,these seasonal saboteurs.

Go.The word is my last and most beautiful gift.

To reach the spirit worldTo be free of these promisesI would find you, and we would laughat the old ways we tried to love.

The stark nude treesare old and survivingwithout attempting modesty.

I am self-contained, a woman unchained.Has there ever been a creature more disdained?

I am a weapon.I am laughter taunting.I have nothing to lose,a woman judged and found wanting.

So, I show my uncovered scarswith a sense of pride.Damn you and damn me.If we cross swords, neither of us will survive.

Wintering over geraniumswith their pale green gingko leaves─they have not died, and neither has she,but the blooms are gone,and every part of her longsfor red.

I dreamt of land but that was so long ago.I don't even know if he still exists.