She grew soft flowers,
back when her hands were small,
with narrow stems and crisp scalloped petals.
She grew them without dirt
or water, holding them so
carefully
it was as if she was feeding them
air. She found in them
beauty, she found
in them hope, as much as
all the quiet things she most wanted to be. But
no one told her and she learned
quickly
what no one would say. As the years went
by the stems grew meek
and the once bright
petals began to steadily fade.
She knew no better, no other, way.
It came like a blow to her gut when she
was finally forced to say
her flowers were paper.
Not meant to last. Not meant to stay.
Not meant to be anything but a
momentary breeze. They did not tell her
beauty is destined to pass. They
wouldn't say not everyone is wise
enough to take
the hope they're given and
run.
She decided then
what she would not be. Not flowers
of tissue with pipe cleaner leaves but something
far distant from these false
house plants. She would seize hope
and with it she'd run, until
she grew branches and roots meant to be torn loose.
Be they paper or petals, she could
no longer grow flowers, but at least,
what she discovered in her now
tumbleweed garden is that at least you can
see a tumbleweed take
to the breeze before its last
breath of shame and regret. After all
sometimes hope for a future beyond, is all you get.