Like the bulbs of Glacier Lilies, my heart bursts forth. Fragile, bathed in the rays of the sun - as magical and archetypal a rebirth as anything in mythic tales.
You do this to me.
My poor heart has been buried in the cold, hard, rocky substratum, waiting for a Spring unpromised.
There is life yet in this broken organ - this untidy symbol of (dare I say it?) love.
You do this to me.
I tell you this not to cause any sense of obligation. You shouldn't have any. (It would be sad if you did.)
I tell you this not to see you react. (Although, a positive reaction would open the flood gates, I'm afraid.)
I tell you this not having expectations. (But, of course, I secretly do.)
Like the bulbs of Glacier Lilies, my life (with its hope and concerns) explodes, like golden fire-birds on delicate stems.
Yes, there's life among the ruins - scattered over this craggy hillside - hopefully not just breakfast for ravenous Grizzlies.
You. Do. This. To. Me.
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