She feels nature in the way she loves, and the way she holds her heart on her sleeve. When the flowers bloom in mid-May and the sunshine peaks through fading clouds; when the daisies grow upon her hair and roses in her ribcage— that is how she knows she is in love.
She blooms up and turns blush pink at the roots. When she loves, flowers reflect her murmuring heart and hands of growing willow branches.
Gleaming tulips and dainty lilies are enamored with summer as much as she adores soulmates and romance.
She believes when God pulls flowers out of the frozen ground, that is when her heart warms the tips of her toes to the strands of her hair. So much to be learned by a vibrant spring— to whisper words into a blossoming sky, cry dew into foggy April mornings, and bask in the sun of the upcoming months of intimacy and tenderness.
When summer turns to fall, and fall turns to winter, and the petals recede into a tired earth, is when she closes her eyes, and rests weary. The infatuation of the fervor of the summer always comes to an end.
In the bliss of a lonely November, she finds solace in the emptiness of her arms, and finds new beginnings in the falling snow.
She knows herself, and the desire of disconnection.
Fire burns out soon enough.
However, the content of her heart is found in solitude, with the flowers gone, she is alone with herself and her thoughts.
She dreams of all the seasons that will follow, and sees that nature does not discriminate against love. She will find it in the cold, dark days that allow this illuminating light to find her. She feels the gentle touch of the wintery, moonless nights.
Passion arrives in the spring with lovely pinks and greens and yellows of the bewitching blossoms. But her home is found in the paradox of seclusion and contentment, lost in the blizzard, upon a fervid soul.
