Flowers
Emily Weidner
My father loves his flowers, He cuts them to arrange. Takes them from where they’re growing, And throws them into change. “What are you doing, my flower?” “Nothing, Father.” He lines them up in gardens, And pulls them from their beds, Rips them from their roots, And cuts off all their heads. “What are you doing, my flower?” “Nothing, Father.” He wraps them in tight ribbons, Presses them in glass, Watches them slowly wither, As the time begins to pass. “What are you doing, my flower?” “Nothing, Father.” He gathers them for beauty, Displays for all to see. He never sees the bruises, The tears upon the leaves. “What are you doing, my flower?” “Nothing, Father.” He talks about perfection, The purity of their gaze. But he doesn’t see the fractures, The tears upon their face.
“What are you doing, my flower?” “Nothing, Father.” He doesn’t hear the whispers, The silent cries of pain. The healthy flowers crumble, Beauty lost in vain. “What are you doing, my flower?” “Nothing, Father.” The blooms begin to wilt, The petals start to shed. He doesn’t see them dying, Doesn’t care if they are dead. “What are you doing, my flower?” “Nothing, Father.” “What are you doing, my flower?” “Growing, Father.” She spread her roots deep in the earth, Flowers blossomed into might. The sun began to shine; She’s no longer bound by night. “What are you doing, my flower?” “Living, Father.”
24
Made with FlippingBook Ebook Creator