Golden Soil

There’s a garden on her skin

bottled plants transferred to her

golden soil by needle farmers

with black hands.

Yellow chrysanthemums and peonies and

queen Anne’s lace rooted in ink

not wanting for water

nor prone to wilting.

It’s an intimidating kind

of beauty.

Bright and confident

blossoms blooming from

a delicate stem.

I get stressed out

just watching the sun play

across her petals

of wild brown hair.

Wondering how I can pluck

her from the ground without tearing

my palms on her thorns

or doing her any harm.

But who am I to pluck

such a lovely thing from

the ground?

Beauty like that

is a privilege to behold

I should count myself lucky

between the love me’s and

the loves me not’s