Epistle for a Water Sign

  
I left you my pain on a page
then walked away  
to plant tomatoes  
hoping to beat the rain  
   
Alone, I sat with hands in the soil  
a growing wind  
and time to think  
about things like fighting for something    
that can't be won  
only given freely  
   
and the futility of amethysts  
attempting to shine like diamonds  
   
Closer to the end    
than the beginning  
the water began to fall  
first in cold drops on warm skin  
then pelts that began to chill  
while I stubbornly continued  
digging holes in dirt  
slowly turning to mud  
   
Hey, sometimes I like to get messy  
   
and the tomatoes are all planted  
(peppers have to wait)  
   
Stripping off soggy clothes,    
I unhooked a memory that made me laugh  
from that long-ago day I sent you a photo  
featuring my gardening bra  
which has to be the ugliest  
piece of “lingerie” I own  
   
and, fuck, if that isn't an apt vignette  
of our history  
   
I'm combustible, but I'm not a fire sign  
mine is air  
and I think the best gift I've given  
hope it's still true (I try)  
is allowing you to just breathe  
in those too-short pauses  
amongst long silences  
being your best friend  
(and biggest damn fan)  
   
I don't follow astrology  
but it seems to fit  
the moment  
with the wet still dripping    
from my hair