It must be love,
this friendship with knots untying
over distance,
untouched time
making room for holding space
where compost settles.
Fermenting waste,
decay has its own perfume
and some of it is sweet.
And sure, there is a story
about new green,
bright tendrils rising;
but none is here,
no seeds,
soil that is.
This is not tragedy,
not melancholic groan,
simply turning over
what has fallen
to help with ripening.
There is a love here
deeper than forgiveness,
softer than arms outstretched,
a waiting beyond ticking,
flowering in reverse.