A
hot house it was, too small
For
the four of us, who bloomed too early
In
pots too small, were overfed,
Flowering
quickly, before it was too late.
We
struggled to blossom prettily
To
become the right color and shape
Exude
the most pleasing fragrance
It
seems, though, that in the hot,
Close
cramp of childhood there was
Too
much heat, roots too shallow,
Desire
too strong.
Or
maybe our seeds weren’t right
To
produce those blooms.
Later,
we tried to put down deeper roots,
To
find good soil, nurture the tiny shoots
That
could become the unique bloom of
Our
lives. We tried to stop seeking
The
gasp of admiration from strangers
To
revel in our own odor, love
The
thorny stems, jagged leaves, sometimes
Frumpy
flower heads, and
Flaunt
our own patchwork hues.
Sometimes,
we succeed, and dance and nod
In
the gracious breeze of evening,
Certain
we are lovely, pleased
With
ourselves.
At
other times, when we are asleep,
Visions
of the most beautiful and most beloved
Flower
haunt our dreams, and
We
awaken once again as weeds.