Imagine a flower, blossoming in your hand.
A fresh new bud, cradled by leaves – or dragonfly wings
too fragile yet to fly but unfolding, unfolding
exploding slowly – giving way before your very eyes
to the tiniest pinprick of concentrated colour
nothing like the colour of your skin.
Imagine that it’s beautiful.

Can you picture it? Good.
Now imagine how much it hurts.
This flower is a living thing
with thirst, and hunger, and roots
burrowing into you, searching for your veins
ready to drink their fill.
The petals wax a deeper red and you do nothing.
What could you do –
– as buds push up beneath your skin and burst –
but watch?
You are becoming a garden.

There is a lump in your throat
and it is hard to tell if it is the pain,
or the beauty, or a bulb
about to bloom from between your lips.
A calm overtakes you.
You will be one with the soil soon – pushing up daisies.
Just think. Your last breath will be perfume
and your grave will not want for flowers.
What could be more perfect?

Imagine a flower, blossoming in your hand.
Now tell me, are you  ready for spring?


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