The flower cared.
Too much, some would say,
Too naive, too loving and innocent.
Easily taken advantage of.
They were right.
Yet the flower didn't believe them.
She wanted to care too much.
The flower knew the snail,
A brown snail with its home on its back and a hard shell.
A shell that spiraled up to a point.
The slow sad snail that sallied its way across the garden every day.
The snail said it would be salted one day,
Or slowly baked in the sun,
If it couldn’t have a bite of the flower’s pedals.
The timid, naive, caring flower
Believed that brown snail
And stood still as the snail slunk it’s way up the stem
To the precious pedals.
At first the snail was kind,
But when the days wore on and the flower grew weaker,
He hemmed and hawed and hurt the flower with his words
Complaining at the scars and hurt.
The ones that were only there because of him.
He became obsessed, demanding more,
She gave him as much as he wanted,
Begging and pleading for him to stop,
And trying not to give any more.
The flower grew weak and nearly died.
If flowers had knees she’d be weeping and trembling on them.
A gentle hand reached down and gingerly touched the crumbling flower.
The hand was worn and weathered, streaked with dirt,
A gardener's hand.
The gardener got his shovel and
Put the flower in a ***.
He watched after the flower daily,
Watering, nourishing, healing.
He did not blame the flower for attracting the snail,
His only thought was to heal and help.
He saw the potential in the flower and knew how to renew it.
She began to heal.
* O *