It is time for the bloom.
The growth.
The awakening of life
that hid itself from
the dead cold. Time for
the Sun and its children to bless
the landscape and cover the
Earth in color.
In flowers.
In roses.
I wish that I could hide.
I carry one with me
year round, you know. Throughout
autumn and the winter. It stays
in my chest. A little seedling that waits
until the perfect time to sprout.
It loves the month of May.
The stem grows first, thorns pricking
my heart.
Then the bulb. The rose is in
full bloom around Mother's day.
I wish that I was immune.
My chest is burst open; I am exposed.
To the reminder of what I didn't have.
What I lost. I wish
this rose, and its thorns,
Didn't still hurt the way it did
when it was planted. No matter how many
Mays come around, this rose
never fails to grow for you.
And I allow it, because the
fear of letting you go is
much more painful.
YOU ARE READING
Where the Flowers Bloom Unwatered
PoetryA collection of poems written throughout several stages in life, journeying through the human condition through the lens of black girlhood and black womanhood.
