don’t like to be moved.
The roots disturbed.
So I left you with strangers
whose backs look indifferent.
People abandon what they don’t know.
Dam empathy in a reservoir
to irrigate their own
red and white double bloom,
not the single yellow with a maroon eye.
You always hold your head up.
Never gaze at the ground
expecting to be picked,
taken from the bees
and the spring sun’s warmth.
Brought inside to leave a scent.
Unable to age and litter
your petals over the dark damp ground.
Your roots content hum a favorite song.
I left you like a child leaves a parent
who wonders if nurture was enough,
if someone else will capture your bloom.