For you, I have become a perennial,
dying a death annually
only to rise from the cold earth
in the following spring.
Darling, it makes me wonder
why, when you kill me with your frosty
dew in late Septembers,
we call it a flower bed,
rather than a grave.
I don’t expect
you to have an answer,
only a solution—
yet another death.
So before you freeze me to the roots,
this year, let me just say,
“Adieu.”
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