Microfiction: Spreading Roots

Daniel has never been much of a gardener. Yet he knows what his lover likes. He clears and tills a space near the back fence, out of the way, where people might miss him between all the pot plants and strawberries (the two go well together). When he pauses to breathe and to sweat, he can feel the tingles where she kissed him, like poison ivy spreading, out in the national forest. It’s evening before he can plant her seed, but it doesn’t take long after that.

Drunk on pollen, he could wait all night. Her vines scrabble in the dirt, inch by inch, awaiting their crown of flowers. A dryad can sprout wherever her tree takes root.

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Salt the Earth

jonas-ducker-427159
Photo by Jonas Dücker

On my lips

the beginning of a name

ransacked by shadow

before its breath was drawn.

 

Sunlight scatters on the wind,

prismatic sprays of receding

ash that carry us far, far

from its expectation.

 

Distance, the stars whisper,

is measured by the sacrifice

of the named, until none

need heart, weightless and alone.