Often I am rooted, but I flow

Fate is a foe, and the wind never comes my direction.
These red flowers fly before this hand even touched them
scattered like in my own dreams—
I hardly notice ‘em.
Flowers that epitomize fire.

Far apart, distance takes it slow
And in the gusty time of year—
Seldom do I meet you
Not where I have first seen you
Not in the midst where I left.

Once in every two years, I plant myself
From where the wind and the red flowers meet,
Often I am rooted, but I flow.

–scribbled with Mrs Dalloway in mind, 12/29/12