The Myth of the Woman and the Flower
“Pity” – “Yes…I’m afraid she’s quite lost her bloom”
 
My dad bought me a plastic plant,
It sits here on my sill;
Its blush is artificial,
It stays green against its will.
Its leaves are made of wax,
Not subject to the Sun – so,
I pocket half the water tax
And house the dead for fun.
 
My mother tends to gardens,
She learns what makes them thrive;
In shade, light, warmth and frost
She finds balance to survive.
This gift went unattended;
To garden was uncool,
Now I bed myself with plastic
And feel a mighty fool.
The plant my dad kindly gave
Begs for me to act,
Its upright stem a contrived part
Of a manmade perennial pact.
It doesn’t take much maintaining,
Staring from that sill,
And yet I have this feeling
That I could kill it still.
 
I long to see some Edelweiss,
That flower means so much,
Hardy and protected,
From human hands which clutch.
Blooming myths are dated,
But blooms run through my core,
Those loving floral wreaths
Are worth remembering once more.