it's May and the cold air holds, blooming is slow but this trick of spring sets hoya's next round, tiny clusters of tight fingers easing into reaching open. she's older than us, spent more time with our matrilineal undoing than we did. letters arrived to greet our failure while hoya did or did not bloom, by the time we found her she'd become a corner where sediment went but not sentiment, only a little light let through. what did she hear? what could she witness?
i took a long time loosing her
unsure what she had become inside the pot. even now, in her beam of light, she stretches out to hold her own vines up, multiplying care by her own surfaces. i take the time it takes to count her. i keep my touch careful but sure. we are the same line. we both knot, i've seen hers, placed them in new dirt with a song. there's something she hasn't told me yet. i am patient. i am going to stay here while the flowers come, and after.
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