Fallow

Dead mums, scattered clumsily across the sidewalk,
suggest that perhaps you and I should uproot and start this whole
thing over.
There was a seed,
this is indisputable,
but the seasons were off and the soil not quite primed.

We've bloomed once,
though for now it is best to suppress
and reassess.

But if, in due time,
the wind blows me your way,
if I am walking and I meet you in my path,

I am going to say it's forever this time,
I'm going to call you perennial . . .
because that is what
these mums suggest.