I planted my flowers in a storm without a center.
Everything they needed poured onto them from the wind.
The higher they grow, their roots go deeper,
And the more they feel the pouring sky above the heads.
They asked me when the rain would stop, and I answered,
Telling them they were planted in a storm without an end.
Since then my flowers have gotten quieter,
And I don't really know what they perceive or understand.
The answer was simple, but they seem desperate to comprehend.
What it means to be a flower is beyond me,
And beyond them, I'm beginning to suspect.
They were lost in the storm and looking for themselves.
Growing up and growing old, evolving in place.
Whatever meaning they may have, might blow by them perchance.
Unfortunately, they're all quite mad.
You’re so vibrant
Or rather, that’s what I recall.
It feels vibrant to remember you,
It was cold
And we were both silent,
Shivering in worlds apart
Somehow, you bloomed
In January’s deadly quiet,
Drearily blanketed as you were,
Your boldness of spirit
Inspired many, though others thought
I must confess,
The winter left me frightened,
My calloused petals nearly scared
I hadn’t so much as sprouted,
Even as you were shimmering
In the eve.
You were vibrant.
Yes, I’m sure now you were.
Your vibrancy must have marked you
To those fiends.
I’d noted them,
The howling sons of tyrants
Braying their tempers vehemently
To their weeds.
To the point of carnal violence
Towards such saturated colors
I lay dormant,
But you swayed on defiant
To be ravaged so voraciously
By those things.
I heard it all.
I shuddered, but I was silent.
Now your swaying has all but stifled
With the breeze.
It’s winter again.
I’m cold and also still quite frightened,
But for our sakes, I promise I’ll finally bloom
Vibrantly in Spring.