Underneath the hushed leaves,
our roots learn to speak
a language of quiet
exhalations and sighs.
One whispers nectar,
the other a thin invisible salt.
We live in the same pot,
share the rain,
and I learn to read the small betrayals—
The yellowing of a leaf,
the way your petals close too soon,
and how the air tastes
of someone else.
You call it care when you prune me
to fit inside your shadow.
You say that closeness is a nutrient,
but it can also be a poison
seeping through to the root, nipping you in the bud.
At night I count the ways my stems have
forgotten to reach out. How my flowers fold
into themselves like little secrets.
I pretend this wilt is from the weather.
More salt for the soil.
There are sprouts of springtime—
shared sun, and shoots of new leaves.
These moments make the
cold snaps harder to name.
I plant a new seed in the soil.
A queer little seed with wants and needs.
When you lean in close
to shade this new seed,
I answer with salt of my own—
a boundary that tastes like rain
and blooms in its own light.
Winter Doe (she/her) is a queer artist whose work blends softness with scientific wonder. Raised in the sun‑bleached southwestern deserts and currently rooted in the northeastern woodlands, she writes poems that drift between data and dream, seeking the subtle sciences of the heart. She is an emerging poet exploring the delicate physics of tenderness and intimacy.