When the Moon Sat With Me and the Mimosa

The moon showed up tonight—
no clouds, no veil—
just her quiet face gazing back at me
like an old friend who finally found her way home.
I told her I’d missed her,
and I meant it.

In the hush of the porchlight,
I picked mimosa blooms—
after a kiss to her leaves,
soft as a promise not to take too much.
And a single Rose of Sharon whispered,
Here. Take me.
So I did.

Now they sit in my lap,
cradled like sleeping children
while the moon keeps watch above.

The mimosa smells like something you’d find
on the cheek of a freshly bathed baby—
that sweet, almost impossible scent
of innocence and newness.
The kind that makes you close your eyes
and breathe her in again and again,
intoxicated with a love so deep
it rewrites your bones.

The sky blushed to match the mimosa—
a soft pink veil stretching over the holler
as if heaven herself
wanted to wear what the trees were blooming.
Time softened.
The garden listened.
And I felt the whole world exhale.

No prayers were spoken tonight,
but the night itself became one—
in scent, in silence,
in silver light on petals.

And I knew:
This was holy.
This was enough.