my love you make the flowers

you make the flowers grow— when our eyes meet, petals unfurl across your brow. at your feet there are blooms which reach for you as though you are the sun. snow drops brush your heels, the first sign of spring after the lean times; the lean times were the hungry times, when one brush of skin against your own was enough to set you aflame. but you, my love— you make the flowers grow, and grow, reaching for your upturned face as though you are the creator of all things. i have not known you through all things, but i have known you through the long nights and i would die by your hand, die at your command. i would leave, again and again, at your request. the world sees you now, in bloom, and i would wither if you asked. but you say "stay love," and you say "stay, my love, the world has loved me in bloom but you! have loved me through the winter."