I tell people that I am in love with flowers.
And in that spoken affection--
that easy to say thing, that easily smiled and accepted statement--
is a bigger and secret love...
One I talk less about because I've no desire for push back, for rebuttal, or any attempt to sway.
The underlying affection is for my sisters and their sons.
I love how like wild things they are-- blooming even if one day forgotten, calling back attention to themselves with their continued existence, making the world a better place by simply existing in it.
They are brightly colored flowers blooming in season
Fragile at first, but growing stronger
Developing root systems that can seek out the nutrients they need-- working to get it themselves--
But always just as ready to return to being cared for...
They are not spoiled by being well-loved.
They are not less worthy when waiting for the rain or the watering can.
They do not have to do anything for my love.