it is goldenrod season and our cosmology is written in a wild carrot flower nebula, mullein comets, constellations of coreopsis. what laws of light and gravity rule us, bend our paths like binary stars, are guarded by sharp-tined teasel piercing the firmament. but this time last year I was a copper rosebud wrapped tight around summer’s last breath, and you were a golden inflorescence, soon a supernova of milky seeds, drifting away on bright blue autumn atmosphere. now we’re bound to a galactic tide, floating on fireweed and trading questions on radio waves: where are you going? when will I see you again? will you remember me?
Beautiful garden of words. And the last questions! So good.
Thank you thank you! 🩷