it is no bouquet
pruned and
plucked and
placed in a vase
stuck on a table
to be admired
for a day
maybe two
then left to wither
love is a garden
love is grown
sown together
tilled and tended
it is not yours
or mine
it is its own
and when you walk away
you cannot take it with you
except in memory
but always
you can return
it may have become
overrun with weeds
plagued by pests
neglected thus
but lest you despair,
know that with care
it can be curated
know also,
left wild
still it may
be beautiful
maybe more so
come,
rest,
and in this
verdant oasis
exhilerate
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