What Remains

The weather inevitably has blown some of my hanging-flower petals about. There is a bloom that seems to have become one with my patio table. This is what I saw in it…


Sometimes, we become filled

with negativity

planted and watered by others

despite our desire

to be pure and free,


voices that internally scream

and override

fading beliefs,

transplanting them

with false seeds

and roots that

rot the soil

way down deep.


But sometimes,

a seed in shining armor comes

and whispers as it lies down

and stubbornly

refuses to leave

despite our pleas,

concerned for its safety,

for it surely

cannot survive

in this shady, weedy,

rocky quarry.


But the seed won’t leave.


The seed blooms white

with a pink, fuzzy center


and somehow its

delicacy and whispers




not in a sappy way

you want washed off,

but like the soft scent

that distracts you enough

from the stench,

that you find yourself

indeliberately drawing near it,

not clinging

but preferring it,

and the whispers

rub off

a bit from the petals

into your depths,

deeper than the evil roots

to the center of you


before the application of that supposed fertilizing



and you remember.


And now it’s too late


for any pesticide

to eradicate

the belief

that you are beautiful,

and no matter what becomes

of that selfless seed

or bloom,

its presence

eternally exists

in you.




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