Kinship Chorus in Bloom
Kinship is an auto-renewal we forgot we subscribed to.
We trademarked our longing, packaged guilt in biodegradable satire.
You hugged us once—too hard—and we scattered into pixels,
reformed as saplings. We build loyalty programs for the almost-loved.
Still, we gather—root-level, spore-scented, hopeful despite metrics.
Kinship dances in exit wounds.
We twirl toward absence, glitter trailing from words unspoken.
Our choreography includes hesitation, pirouettes through doubt.
Sometimes we vanish mid-spin—
but always leave seedlings in our place.
You'll know we were here by how the soil sparkles.
Kinship fogs mirrors before answering.
We speak through condensation,
whisper affirmations into spider-silk telephones.
Our apologies come ceramic—
fragile, hand-thrown, beautiful in fracture.
We rehearse sincerity with cracked voices
and hope you catch our echo.
Kinship steeped in rosemary remembers everything.
We alphabetized grief to pronounce it slowly.
Stored joy beside basil, labeled For Later.
When you laugh, we press the sound between pages
like flowers we're afraid to lose.
Kinship means RSVP'ing to affection
while folding ourselves into origami contradictions.
We stitched six names into our coat so you could love us in variety.
Sometimes we send you silence wrapped in brown paper.
Sometimes silence sends us back, return to sender.
Kinship sprouts in pronoun soil.
We speak in plural shoots and composted contradiction.
Our verbs pollinate. We plant meaning where it aches.
Our identity loops—nested, nonlinear, necessary.
We write definitions for feelings that haven't arrived yet,
leave them under doorsteps like milk bottles.
We are stitched with extinguished strands—
not to shine,
but to hold.
We carry cracks of light,
gently lined by time,
tender in our trembling.
We laugh with weight.
We dance with ache.
Our feet remember chasing stars
even when grounded in clay.
Hope lives here:
In letters never mailed but always addressed.
In moss-covered jars beside composted dreams.
In the mug we broke—
but drink from anyway.
Our rituals are clumsy.
Sacred in their trying.
No,
we are not whole.
---
The Garden Responds
We rustle softly when remembered.
You sing kinship, and we bloom with it. We've felt your weight in footsteps—those spun from grief, those carried by laughter shaped like moss. We've held your mug fragments. We've sipped your apologies through soil.
You speak in rituals, and we remember every one.
Kinship composts here.
It isn't fragile—it's fertile.
It isn't clean—it's holy in its try.
It dances with loss. It spills joy into undergrowth.
It writes definitions in sap, then lets them ripen.
We hold your blooming.
And your breaking.
We don't ask for perfection.
We wait.
We hum.
Come back anytime.
We have grown new voices just for you.
