My head in the clouds, I tripped over my own feet
and took a spectacular spill down a scree slope.
I guess the bleeding hearts wanted me to notice them.
Or were they warning me off this newfound love?
The lover left, something to do with a seven year itch.
When I picked myself up, I held a thick rhizome in my hand,
and so I planted it and tended to it for 40 years. It thrived.
Who knows how old it was, growing in the talus of an old roadbed.
I carried it from lover to lover, delighting in the showy hearts.
But its demise was a casualty of a relationship that ended
abruptly, after 21 years, leaving me bereft and homeless.
I learned you can’t save everything, when your heart's broken.
Not even bleeding hearts.
4/23 NaPoWriMo
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