by Heather M. Hoover

You never buy
roses wrapped
in green paper,

or boxes of chocolates
with mysterious
centers

but you bring home
the last
of the perfectly petaled
dahlias

carefully arrange
them in the blue
vase, like you have
all summer

a small love
offering,
set on the kitchen
counter, predictable
almost
in your regularity.

They catch my eye
while I unload
the dishwasher

and I wonder how
many meals,
how many dishes,
how many flowers

how you plus me
became a son
a daughter,
four dogs
the baby
we never
met

a modest love
spiraling, arcing
into the future,
each petal catching
the sunlight,
cupping the rain,
a divine portion,
so achingly, astoundingly
familiar

no card,
just the urgent
message
the universe repeats
over and over and
over
that one plus
one is never
only two.

Photo by Sjoukje Bos on Unsplash