flower

flower,
your stem is a fragile connection to my heart
to the earth of sparrows
to a song of loneliness we lose
in fields of daffodils,
of tulips,
of blue bells,
of our desires longings
for colors, colors,we plant to feed us
life rises in spring with a sepia dream
to convince the world it is beautiful
so I became a flower reaching up to the worlds eyes
and we didn't look to closely to question the colors because
they're beautiful

my mother planted her fingers in the earths flowers,
and the hours died as they grew
flowers, her flowers everywhere
until I couldn't remember the memory of her hands
her hands had no room for children to grow beneath her soil
and the stems were severed in the vase
because only flowers filled her life
you can see flowers, yet not think about them,
and you wonder if one blooms as you sleep
and it will be spring, or maybe nothing at all
or one day you wake to realize they have come and gone
and never bloomed at all
to be a flower is to know how to die

.the last thing my mother will see is flowers
the first head will push against the earth
with it's need of sun
it's proof of beauty
but maybe they won't, and it will be winter forever once

there's so much to prove above the ground inside a rose
that the frost is leaving, and one bird brave decides to live
happy without seeing the morning flower at all

you finish the last cup of coffee
and leave your lies at the bottom
 waiting for flowers there
in the still cold air alone
and get ready to face the world where the flowers
are ready to prove you either right or wrong someday,
and you only hope believing is enough to warm the earth
do they ever tell the truth when you're not watching?
 like ghosts between your dreams
they come and go, and
spring is only a flower
my mother planted