Can a flower be reborn after it is shorn?
Not by gentle hands but by rusted scissors
Or is it destined to be a cautionary tale
For other flowers who might let themselves be picked?

Can her roots have dug so deep,
Intertwined with her kind,
That even when the stalk is ripped away
Her essence is left behind?

Maybe she’s meant to be a discarded flower
Crushed and used
Shriveled and wilted
Dull and abused
Weathered into a bloated shell of what was
What could have been
What is now

Will her failure seep into the garden
Poison the rows of lilies and purple hyacinth
Will their petals harden
And recoil from their sister?
How can they forgive her?

Spring lies in the distance
Its freshness carried in on a listless wind
Wafting away the stench of winter
And replacing it with wet soil, the tender love of the garden
I can almost see a budding flower
I pray that spring is coming
I know that spring is coming

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