It’s springtime and my bleeding hearts need tending.
I see last year’s dead stalks laced with dried pine needles –
the evergreen leaves that were supposed to last forever.
I pluck and tear the loathsome stalks away
discarding all of winter’s sorrows
uncovering bruised-purple warriors
that will turn to green and reappear as
small, floral droplets of blood.
The new stalks are corpse white
with raw, finger-like sprouts
rising from bleached bones.
They foreshadow blossoms to come –
blossoms young and alive,
made of blushing pink arms
that cradle and care for
the delicate drops of blood
turned pure white,
holding winter’s sorrows
so they won’t darken sunny days.
I tend my bleeding hearts –
they carry my fading distress –
and winter seems so far away.