The Analogous Flower
There lies a flower. It is feeble. It rests its body upon the soil, the same dry and cracked and empty soil that had at one time provided the flower with all the nutrients it had needed to thrive. What was sky is now pale, as if it is diseased and anemic, a sickly pastel of the vivid hue it had once proclaimed. All of the life-giving water is gone. This is a desolate land.
The delicate petals were the first to go. Their violet color drained, and they shriveled in on themselves. They fell to the ground like the ashes of a tragic fire. The leaves followed suit and were swept up and away in an arid wind. The fibrous threads of the stem stood strong and noble for as long as they were able but could bear the weight of themselves no longer and slowly came to lie defeated against the earth. All that remains now are the roots.
Below the surface, the roots are alive. Very much alive. The desire is there - they want to grow. They dare to behold, to faithfully and desperately cling, to the vision of what they once were, of what they had once created and embodied. What will it take? What will it require? What measures must be exercised for this flower to flourish again?
Water. And tenderness. And fertilizer, perhaps. What will serve as the fertilizer? What thing, or things, will best serve as the impetus to gently coax this flower to blossom once more?
Yes. That is the question. The water and the sun and the tender care are the constants for any flower or plant. But the fertilizer is the variant. What is nourishing to one is toxic to another.
I must discover the fertilizer...