I once met a fully grown flower girl.
Not flower power, flower child, but a real desert rose.
Not gypsum and barite but the organic kind of flower that only grows once in a thousand years.
And I picked that flower. Didn’t water it, stepped on it on my way to the porch.
It still grew:
Wild and free – despite my chastise, but never in spite.
She said: come on boy, open the curtains – let in some light.
And for a moment, it was summer.
But winter came and I buried my rose in the dirty snow of the seasons.
And she grew rigid and cold in the hard pack of stomped-in-ice.
Many fires I lit to try and convince her:
I swear – if you just bloom, it’ll feel so nice.
But frostbitten as a January rose – her lip quivered in innocent fear.
And I tried to squeeze her tighter – G-d damnit, come here!
So I buzzed round that bud like a bee, greedy and selfish, and nothing a rose would need.
I flew far from the roost – hungry to be drunk, in search of a nectar as sweet.
And woe was me, so full of poison, a real killer bee.
How many times she took me back – on dirty and broken wings…
Yet each time, I asked:
What had happened to that summer – when the rose too had needed me?
But the universe knew better.
Three times three summers later – I was stung by bees.
Until finally; one day – I lie wounded in the street.
I thought only of her soft petals (those cheeks on my baby lamb).
I feared much: would my rose still give a damn?
What had I brought her, but the buzz of my song.
For I had robbed her of her sweetness. My my, I did her wrong.
And as I tried to fly for the final time – I realized: my sweetest rose had been there all along.