You wish for the flower to grow?
Yet lack the patience
to water her soil,
prune her stems,
elevate her bloom.
You cry at her thorns
unwilling to understand
the pain endured,
underneath,
beyond the skin
the work within
plainly doting her figure.
At the very least: listen.
Dust off the time
that passes by
caress her wounds,
gently.
Whisper sweet gifts,
allow her to unfold
petal by petal
blossom to your wake
At the very least,
your absent mind
plucks her.
Watches her still
as she wilts,
slowly
saturation-
decreasing.
A crispy leaf
idle on the kitchen counter
dry as your love
that she thirsts for.
How you can’t even care
the flower which you prayed?
At the very least,
bathe her.
Steep her in warmth
let her leaves rest
for moments
more.
Give her another life,
set her free.
Survey how she breathes
in the porcelain water,
taking up space in the cup.
The smell wraps around your ears
you hear your name,
louder for a sip.
She leaves you a final gift:
a taste to flush your memory,
a reminiscent tongue.
Hmm…
Hmm…
Who knew chamomile tea
was this bittersweet
?
