i sit at my mother’s table,
taking apart the roses father sent me
[happy sweet sixteenth, honey]
big-headed idols of the flowerfae,
gaia-sent and humankind-picked
[this is the classic, this is the girl we will blow up]
they’re dried up, twelve days after
the outside shriveled, some old maid
past her prime, past rose-bouquet days
i peel back the layers of the tough façade,
[alogotrophic, pitifully decrepit]
like slivers of lost hopes and ‘i-told-you-so’s,
and watch it bloom again, rebirthing
and realizing soon after that the inner things
are often the youngest, the most delicate;
the truth, and we must protect them
duly, with withered indifference
–
written w10aug2011.
–
idiography 