Memory and Irrigation

“My hands touch your stem and I breathe, I recall my years in distant lands, the quest burning my eyes, my soul. Nostalgia, wild and pure, of fields and faces and crossed seas. They say you bear my name, but I think: there is no name that encloses or describes, the sun that in your chest burns the snow that dwells in your flower. If a garden is memory and remembering is our watering, I will keep myself from drowning, my beautiful white poppy, in your recollection.”