We came from the same womb, the same warm dark place, tucked safely inside with the others. We wait until the last full moon of the planting month, when the killing frosts are no longer a threat before we push through the rich layer of that which separates here from there.
All of we sisters quiver and reach towards the warm sun rising high above, following from east to west, eager to unfold and liberate beauty from within round, swollen buds. The others – tall, slender shoots – come, rush, tower over us, boasting frilly lavender, wine, yellow and white frocks that crumple and wither before us.
We take turns showing our faces – unmistakable papery pink petals surround an innocent, deep crown of purple seeds known to bring sleep and cast a spell on the weak. The spirit of beauty and truth intoxicates those of a divine spark.
When the time is right, my sister and I follow the others, whose spotted silken petals lay still in garden grasses beside enduring hemlock.
We wait and watch the other unravel undying pinkness. Quiet winds urge us to show our faces, which makes the gardener weep. She comes out once and again to watch us and to wait.
After the night and before the day, my sister and I make the last gesture of completeness. In all of our glory, we – two sisters of the earth womb, follow the sun and beguile young men with potent seeds and entice old women to cut for her table – have arrived. We sisters collect dew and call upon butterflies. We watch the others come and go before us and we watch the others wait in bud for our passing. Finally, in one sweet, elusive moment, our decaying petals will lie on the garden floor, proclaiming our memory and lingering on the next miracle.
