Wednesday, October 1, 2008

Flower Bed

You picked me from a garden of weeds. If you can remember that far back, I was the only one who wasn't a weed in that particular garden. That's why you chose me, remember? At first, you just looked at me in a vase on your windowsill. Then you used me as a link in the garland of flowers in your hair. That's when you began to love me. But, winter came and the wind blew me out of your locks. I hadn't blown far yet, but you neglected to find beauty in me anymore. You plucked me up only to leave me without roots to stand on or even weeds to keep me company. I started to wilt. Another lover sent for me and I mailed myself in a box that flew to Chicago, the origin of my seeds. I thought of you there. You missed me despite my fragility and dying leaves. You were the only gardener that saw and understood the way my colors shone in the sun and light of the moon. The sun didn't shine much in Chicago. I was replanted, but never grew there, and you knew that, too. You followed me there only to find a weed prettier than me. This weed grew off the sidewalk of your beaten bicycle path and you couldn't control him. But, I was there in your backyard's garden when you needed me. There were times when you'd pull me out of the soil and we'd share a moment together. You'd delicately run my petals along the edge of your lips while you fingered my stem, but it was only to drop me back into my flower bed again.

1 comment:

Adam Davenport said...

Beautiful bit of poetic prose, outside of the fact that flowers are the sex organs of plants. I laugh when I see people getting flowers and smelling them- "Hah! You have plant vulva in your schnozz!"