The Wilting Gift

I never liked flowers—

Yet I longed for a bouquet in my hands.

You’d wonder why crave something I detest?

But flowers remind me of us, of life’s strands.

A bloom so fragile, yet a promise of grace,

Reminds me how we all occupy such space.

No matter how tenderly you prune or you try,

Each petal will fall, each blossom will die.

It’s a truth that gnaws, a fate that’s set—

Everything’s meant to perish, no regrets.

But I see myself in each wilting stem,

How survival depends on whose hands I’m in.

In the wrong touch, I’ll wither in days,

But in the right grasp, I might just amaze—

Bloom a little longer, dance in the breeze,

Maybe a week, perhaps two, I’ll defy the disease.

So, gift me that bunch, let me feel it, I plead—

Let me see if I flourish or wither from need.

For flowers are frail, yet they whisper, they sing—

A story of resilience, of life’s fleeting spring.

...

#AH