Bloom

You've heard how Roses can grow through concrete, right?

It's true. I remember when asphalt tore a bouquet in my shoulder,

Pink carnations.

On the same day, the day my bike brakes locked up, it left a matching arrangement on my hip,

darker, closer to crimson.

On my elbow is a falling petal, gouged in another tumble.

And you've seen how a snipping can produce another plant entirely, yes?

This is true too. I remember a tree limb falling; a rush to divert it from the chickens,

And how it collared my wrist in a salmon corsage.

The opportunities are everywhere.

A railing split my eyelid into blossoms,

kitchen knives twisted vines into my forearms (vines do creep best, it seems, when you're alone).

With every blossom I see no damage.

Beauty--fading here, blooming there--is a shared thing.

There is only so much.

With every rose the world needles into me I earn my share of it,

and every bloody drop of me plucked by those flowers the earth drinks up greedily.

Someday I'll pay with it all, when I'm ready,

and then I will grow daisies.