the dogwood never bloomed last year.
the weather was perfect—the kind you
can barely feel against your skin without
a wind; the type of temperate that makes you
lose a sense of where you end and it begins.
but the tree went straight to leaf; it chose to not
proudly flower its little cotton crowns that soften
and peel off and land soundlessly in your lap.
it was what she first saw; it was what drew her
to this house. and now, almost two years later,
she is waiting again to see if it will bloom;
she is waiting again to see what will be.