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…

Who knew chamomile tea 

was this bittersweet 

?