A cousin pointed you out
to me
when strolling calmly
to the abandoned playground.
“A weed!” she falsely exclaims
while she prods at your
emerald
leaves.
However, my eyes
must be deceiving me,
for I see
the most enchanting creature
that is known to man.
Your velveteen leaves,
with drops of morning dew,
are mirages,
transforming
from a freshly spun
creamy golden foam
to an arctic forest green
as deep as the night itself.
Your indigo bud,
hidden behind blankets of green,
is a freshly washed gown
hidden in the back of a dress shop,
anticipation flooding through
every one of Nature’s stitches,
waiting for that someone to see it for
what potential it has.
A gift from Heaven itself,
masked behind the role
it has been granted.
Instead of plucking it
from where it has begun to
flourish,
instead of pressing your immaculate
body against the coarse bindings of my scrapbook,
instead of trying to alter
your stunning figure,
I let you go
silently,
for it is not my choice
whether your kind may stay alive
or not.
There is nothing I can do,
except for to hope
that my memory
of you
will not fade away.
Today, I continue to see
your long lost brothers and sisters
on evening strolls,
in sunlit valleys,
and inside the inner workings
of my
heart.
Pittsburgh, PA
