My mother once had a lilly of the valley;
and she sold it to me. And sowed it, too, I guess,
and planted it in the twists and turns of
the unripe soil that was my being.
Fostered in me was a wildflower.
For fostered in my unkept soul was purity,
a sense of humility, and overpowering sweetness,
like the first mouthful of an overripe fruit.
It's bounty was my pride, a sense of self.
My seeds of kindness spread as I did,
they grew as I too did, in the valley of
my self-discovery and the fosters of my
first signs of self-reflection and love.
The first flowers of May bloomed when
I finally accepted myself as a complete
being, not only as another object for
someone to love and then discard again.
I would never again be one's apple core
to throw away, but a pristine white petal
with the aroma smelling just as heavenly
as what a thousand harps would sound.
Heres to outgrowing where you're planted
and fostering in the soil of unruly beginnings.
YOU ARE READING
Blackberry Thistles ✓
Poetrypoems as delicate as the fruit itself, and as thought-provoking as the sour aftertaste. All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2019 Kate H. > third place winner of the gem-mers awards poetry section 2020
