Two Flowers
As the sun dances through the branches of the oak trees
and kisses the crisp, dewy blades beneath my toes,
my mind drifts like a log traveling downstream on a frigid river,
heading directly for the rapids.
I remember the Two Flowers
and how they once bloomed for me.
One was a cherry red Tulip,
whose stem was strong
and had petals that were gentle,
yet rough, like corduroy.
The Tulip’s scent was pungent,
and filled my nostrils with a desire so strong,
I became intoxicated,
lightheaded,
It was a high that left my brain buzzing
and my throat parched,
thirsty for more.
The other was a Chrysanthemum,
pink like bubble gum
and sweet like it too,
whose stem was meek
and had petals made of cotton.
The Chrysanthemum’s scent was more subtle,
I leaned close until its’ cotton petals tickled my nose,
and inhaled deeply.
As I did, the sweet aroma of honey
dripped slowly into my body
and stuck to my bones so deliciously.
The stems of the Two Flowers grew from the earth so eloquently,
Yet, so differently.
And They both bent toward me with admirational yearning,
longing,
And begging,
They screamed “pick me” at the top of their lungs.
Suddenly, the burning indigestion of guilt
bubbled up in my throat,
As I realized I could only pick one.
They grew toward me faster.
Contorting.
Curving.
Craving
my pale, perspiring hands to reach down,
pick them out from the dry soil,
and caress their stems.
I had to choose.
But I couldn’t.
I stood glaring over the Two Flowers,
Until the sun left its stinging kiss on my cheeks,
And the thick, green moss slowly slithered up my calves.
Trying to decide which one to pick,
which stem would fit into my palm perfectly
like a piece of a puzzle,
whose scent I would never grow tired of,
and whose petals I would never want to stop stroking.
Suddenly, realization hit me like a bullet.
Pink had always been my favorite color,
and the subtle scent of bubble gum was comforting,
It reminded me of my days as a child,
sitting under the steaming summer sun,
chomping my worries away.
And now, as my mind travels back upstream,
back to present,
I look down at the Chrysanthemum in my hand
And notice how the sun playfully bounces off of its cotton petals;
it fills me with reassurance and certainty.
And even though I know
That choosing the Chrysanthemum was best,
I sometimes find myself thirsty for the desire
That the Tulip poured into me,
wondering how the corduroy would feel
clutched in my palm.