Talk of Cohabitation

An old tree on the road to your house
grows around some sign, its
letters worn down by time
and long-faded. I remember
how I felt when I read
that you were undecided
about me, heavy and hollow as
the tree was pulped for paper,
sign ripped out unceremoniously,
the me sent for recycling. I
breathed in metered doses
and kept my fingers buried
in the dirt. Separate the bulb,
unbound the root; loosen
so it can grow stronger
and host a sign of its own.
Today, your hands were
tilling beside mine.