People think flowers
grow because they are loved.
I think they grow
because they have no choice.
The gardener waters them
with hands that still remember
holding someone else's.
Each bloom
pretends not to notice.
One twirls and spins a sword
like it never stops playing
yet doesnt understand the game.
One carries stories
inside glass petals
too small to control them.
One looks to the sky
awaiting justice to be served
but easily falls into the jaws of lies.
One speaks of love
that belongs to old romances
just before they disappear.
One burns loudly,
mistaking strength and protectivness
for purpose.
One bends toward every voice,
believing kindness
is the same thing
as being needed.
Not because the world
is gentle.
Not because gardens
last forever.
But because if it stops smiling,
the others might finally ask
why they were planted here.
I have learned
that flowers do not bloom
to celebrate spring.
Sometimes
they bloom
to delay autumn.
Sometimes
they bloom
because someone
is watching.
Sometimes
they bloom
because the gardener
cannot bear another empty pot.
When the wind comes,
they lean together.
To make it look
like they were never afraid.
I used to think
the saddest thing
was finding a dead flower.
Now I think
the saddest thing
long after the season
has already ended.
