some pluck roses,
thorns hidden in their palms,
to say what words cannot.
others press petals to their collarbones,
hoping the smell will linger
like a quiet scent, barely there.
a whispered promise
that fades
if you breathe too deeply.
even so,
the soil decides more than the seed.
each species, each variety,
shaped by what it knows—
in the earth made gentle by fallen trees,
rich and dark,
or sand
that forgets the rain.
though planted together,
some flowers blossom late,
opening only
under a reluctant dawn.
one, bent and scarred,
blooms black beneath the ash:
a hidden flame that burns
when all else is lost.
once, i saw a seed split open,
not reaching for the sun,
but yielding to the rain’s cold key,
unlocking rooms no light could touch.
some blooms flare briefly:
annuals.
they visit once,
a sudden bright fever
that cools
under the first pale moon of autumn.
to keep their beauty near,
you must press the earth closed,
before the roots lose your hands.
perennials remain, survive
after each winter that gnaws
at stone and bone.
yet even they,
without the slow flow of care,
will begin to wilt.
the dandelion weed grows where it isn’t wanted,
yet outlives the orchids
who demanded constant hands.
some flowers erupt wild in ditches,
needing no gardener’s hand.
others are coaxed open in glasshouses,
guarded from every frost,
fragile as secrets.
some blaze at spring’s first gasp.
others bide their time,
opening only
when the world
is ready
to see them.
thorned or tender,
wild or cultivated,
the flowers lean to whatever light might have them.
Even if it is not the sun,
Even if it asks them to grow in the dark.
The Roar 