Hydrangeas

A week ago, the hydrangeas
were green and you were not yet here.
Now they are white,
and you are in my arms:
my arm and yours
nestled behind your head,
your lips folded around me,
a bee drinking nectar,
and I think I’ve done it.
I’ve become a flower.
We swaddled you in a blanket,
rose petal pink with peonies,
and you, my love, with skin
still powdered in birth
smelled like sweet rolls.
Now here in the garden we sit.
Like bursting blooms,
so too is my heart,
so too are you,
bringing beauty and joy
to my world.

~

Four months ago, the hydrangeas
were white and I held you as you suckled.
Now they have dried out:
they‘re crisp and tan and ready to be cut.
The nights are long
and your piercing lungs are as fierce
as the wind that rattles the windows
of your new room, and
I‘m unsure if wind or breath
blows the hydrangeas down.
It‘s time to cut the stems and
let them rest for a season.
How foolish it would be to water
the hydrangeas now.
I tend to you and wonder
When will I let you keep crying?
How will I cut you off?
You are restless in the night,
but in my arms
you nestle in to suckle,
sigh peacefully,
sleep,
and I think Let me hold on
to this season a little longer.