Viola

In the winter months my garden is a frosty tomb 
Between the plants and I, an abundance of blight,
I find one which still blooms.  

Oh my viola, my piece of the divine 
You persist in the falling snow and flourish in sunshine. 

When I wish to confess fear constricts me like hordes of vines 
For what if these aren’t love seeds? Resented as returned weeds 
And forgotten such as lines unmemorized. 

My viola; the symbol of my innocence 
When your harvest is inbound don’t throw me to the ground 
Depart gently as the morning mist.   

My chance to pick you and your scent are the same; slipped away just as soon as it came 
Arrived and went with the smallest of whiffs 
Sometimes in this life one harvest is all you get. 

My viola; my perennial love, will grow for seasons on end
But to my dismay the day you’ll wither away 
To madness I’ll descend.