The Last Dead Nettle

Written about a month ago… idk why WP decided to re-publish.


I thought of you as my beekeeper, the one who tends, careful and cautious, a labor of love. I knew not of any desire to sting and not a thought that you ever would. Never to you could I bring harm and I truly knew the same of you. Yet it seems it was only my desire to shelter and keep safe. How was I so wrong? This irrevocable poison runs in my veins, slowly killing any thought but you. 
How though? How could this be? Every day I wonder, unsure of any truths. Till now I know all I can do is lie down and return my flower essence to the place from which it came. Where is that even? I truly do not know. Until you came along I was unaware of my blooming at all. Completely oblivious to the beauty which had grown for you to see, and for me to be.
The October carpet of dead nettle covers the fall ground. It’s blooming time months and months away. Last year I recall a hike during the last dead nettle bloom. True this flower, to most a weed, grows rampant every Spring. One day a sweet fairy of a friend posted her pictures of a delicious looking dead nettle salad and I was intrigued. Is this how love has looked to me? A weed, insidious and choking, grown in all the wrong places with all the wrong flowers? It was on this hike that now I knew the beauty within the weed and although I could not see them anymore in their usual places, I took heart and knew if it was meant to be, that they would still grow for me. Little did I know then that your bloom, too was just months away. Your flowering of love for my heart to at last believe.

 Is it still meant to be? Do you grow at all for me? I can’t think and I can’t see.
Walking on, there on a hill, dappled in sunlight and waving purple on the breeze… the last dead nettle bloomed for me. Such freedom and delight in plucking a wild flower and letting it’s sweetness melt on your tongue. Today it seems almost rebellious to eat directly from the land. No bag, no box, no market, no cost. Simply a treat, grown for just you, it’s nectar so sweet. You can taste all the sun shone upon it, every drop of rain that nourished it and most of all the sweet sound of the Universe that called it into being. It was as if I was tasting light. This too is how I felt with you. You taste of sunlight and sweetness. You quenched my thirst like rain.
How can it be that this is you to me? Grown just for me and I only for you? Now it seems not to be. I was being a dreamer, a hopeless romantic, naive and stupid. 

Would you even know I felt that way of you? Every thing that made you grow, every experience, every storm. I longed to taste them all and drink them into my being, yet now all I can do is choke on the memory of what’s not to be.
Alone now, I feel as the last dead nettle of Spring, blooming on a hill somewhere out of sight. No traveler to set eyes upon, no sweetness on anyone’s tongue. Here it is I shall do what flowers do and allow myself to return to the earth. My green diminishing, my petals floating to the forest floor, lying down in meadow and letting go. I knew not that I even grew, I knew not it was only for you. Yet, now I know and it’s all lost to me, so I shall let go. I no longer wish to be. I no longer wish to see. Such is the fleeting life of a flower, it’s smile, it’s life, lasting but a mere hour.
Such a comfort it feels to rest, lying here on the green grass and falling leaves. Like a stone I lay still feeling the vibration and hum of the Earth. It requires getting so very quiet to sense, so very still to feel. Effortless for me in this moment, for I have no other longing, no desire to stand up, no desire to keep going. The Earth feels beautiful between my fingers, the vines slowly growing through my hair, winding around my sorrow, binding my body to the ground, piercing my heart without a sound.
Letting go I feel the wind rush over me, the leaves fall and cover me, the sun warm on closed eyes and vacant heart. When a chill comes I welcome it. Please bring on the numbing cold, for here I lay, done and old. Moss and mushroom blanket me as their welcome growth covers my sight, blocks out my hearing, making void my touch. The world can reach me no longer, only in Mother Natures arms do I exist. Only that soothing hum of the Earth, that aching, fading memory of you, the desire to bloom for any other long gone. Returning home to oblivion my only choice left. No, it’s no choice. In truth I have no choice but to lay here, to let go and to dream of the time my complete dissolution will finally stop the longing for the one reason I came here to bloom. As my blood slowly returns to nourish the ground, winter smiles sweet forgiveness on my soul, encasing my being in ice and snow, my time is over, finally free to forever let go.

Copyright 2017, Artemis On Fire

Even in the Dead Nettle the Clover has the courage to bloom. (My pic, my garden)

3 comments on “The Last Dead Nettle”

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