do not expect gifts of flowers from me
i don’t have my father’s skill
at coaxing life from stubborn seeds
sneakily smuggled out of cambodia
or my mother’s dedication to
dozens of delicate plants potted
in just as many different sized containers

i cannot even keep heather
which needs almost no care at all
from dying of too much
or maybe too little water
i’m still not sure which
and i feel too sad for the cut flowers
harvested in their prime
and rubber banded into bouquets
to pick out the least wilted bunch

but i can offer you a virtual garden
a digital nursery of poems
borne of the heart
that you may view at your leisure
where each visit will reveal
some new growth
where no two creations will ever
look or sound or
feel the same
unless it is in
the way plumeria petals feel
velvety like your lips
or the way your hand in mine feels
warm like sunshine
or the way every word i write feels
like a heartbeat calling you home