With petals sculpted from stone,
Covered in moss,
And a pollen (dustings of the few
kindnesses She’s been granted),
She lives. She blooms still.
She’s no one’s flower.
Planted among ash,
She spins it to gold;
when I’m weary She
lends me rain.
Tolerates, but never suffers.
For any fool should be
so lucky that She gives
them a moment and
trades it for peace.
I owe Her the world,
which owes Her more
and perhaps one day
we’ll square up,
in a cafe on the corner.
She’s owed the best
soil and the brightest sunlight,
the prettiest pot and the
purest air,
but pizza in the bath will have to do.
On Tuesdays 