The violet has a history of slight
misunderstanding. People say she's shy.
Really, she sports her own peculiar might
and multiplies where other flowers die,
for instance, under trees and scattered trash.
Indeed, she is quite modest--meaning she
is humble and will home in maiden's sash
or vagrant's button hole. Simplicity
may not be weakness, but a stubborn gift
for existence despite a crooked world--
like purple petals, fragrance in the rift
between the dirt and heavens, buds uncurled.
Only those who would uproot her know
her gnarled roots and weed-like will to grow.
Elena, this is wonderful! I absolutely love it!
ReplyDeleteI'm really glad you liked it, Dr. Impson! It was fun to write.
DeleteYou constantly delight me with your poems. When I read them something inside me clicks and I think, "Yes! That's exactly how it is!". Your words are beautiful. <3
ReplyDeleteThank you, KattyRae! That's one of the nicest compliments I could get :)
ReplyDeleteA marvel, Elena! I love how wonderfully you've captured the paradox of modesty and tenacity ...
ReplyDeleteThank you, Thomas! I have a soft spot for this poem!
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