chamomiles.

I may be bizarre and outlandish, but there is a certain bizarreness in being estranged in this world. I march out of comfort to the garden while the deep blue arcs adorn the sky in a velvety aura. I march out of certainty to embrace the plantations of loving intentions.

How I wish you were here, marching with me. Your boots are covered in dew, rambling and rumbling over the treachery of it. Mine are soaked to the sock, and I rumble on indifferently, the hems of my dress tossed in earthen streaks and moist goodness.

I’m not alone. It’s Venus here, shining my way to sun-up. The garden is desolate and forlorn, and it reminds me of you, somehow. I dig my hands into the dry grass and pull it out, and nobody can see is that I’m making safer nests for wilder things to grow.

I plant chamomiles. Perhaps, I was meant to be a wildflower in your field. It’s not as grand or as world-changing, but it is wildly sweet, and it lives with such audacity and fervor— ultimately the life I’d like to remember once I wilt and die, all that would be left of me is that one memory of how sweetly, softly and truly I lived.

Venus extinguishes in the face of the light of the sun. I’ve forgotten the cold awhile, but now it’s here, at the vicinity of my toenails. You aren’t here, still, but I was always in your field. I dwell in it just as my soul does.

I’ve always loved you, your ever-presence. Sometimes I only worry my chamomiles are never enough. And sometimes I worry that with all this rumbling and traipsing with joy, I’ll never come close to your truth.

Forgive me— and I hope you do, as you watch the chamomiles blossom this spring.