Flowers and Weeds

Her cold hands tremble–

As she plucks the delicate stem from the warm earth. 

Warm breath escapes–

From the lips men once lusted after before she knew what she was worth. 

The clocktower ticks–

And the crowd watches her clutch her flowers and weeds to her chest.

Not a vase nor a casket– 

She wraps the green stems around each other just so nothing slips.

She doesn’t need a basket– 

For the flora is destined to succumb to death in the strength of her wrists. 

She mumbles to herself–

“I must carry them alone.” 

She repeats aloud–

“Alone, I must carry them- My flowers and weeds.” 

A man, a woman, and a child– 

See the girl trip on the sidewalk and fall upon herself.

The girl stands as abruptly as she fell–

She brushes herself off and then remembers her flowers and weeds.

“Are you okay–”  

Enters the man. “Are you hurt? How are your flowers and weeds?” 

She says to the man, to the woman, and to the child– 

“To home, I must carry them– 

Alone, I must carry them- my flowers and weeds.” 

Thunders rumbles up in the sky–

“A storm is approaching,” says the woman to her. 

From her to her with the thunder in the sky–

“It is time for you to leave your flowers and weeds.” 

She realizes that her flowers and weeds that she held to close– 

Are simply flowers and weeds, and nothing else. 

But to the poet who writes–

With a certain dignified belief in mind,

And the reader who reads–

Without bias until beliefs affirmed by faith, art, or science,

Poems are never just poems.