Like a flower in blossom during the spring,
a season trying desperately to blanket light.
As each petal stretches and yawns toward the sun,
its core, the stigma, is exposed,
awaiting the glory of which it has anticipated
for many cold
and lonely months.
And as it stares out, dormant yet accomplished
in its mission, ready to embrace and absorb,
the darkness of a sole plucks at its protection,
piece by piece;
you love me not,
you love me not.
And the stigma, baffled and depleted:
“What a mockery you have made of me, young sole,
how I opened up to you and you gloat like
a drought, when I was at my most thirsty.
“How could it be that you would take this
opportunity, of my exposure,
of relishing in my naked flesh,
and turn it into your own sense of
self-satisfying, egotist achievement.”
But you see, there lies strength in the seed,
it ensures that each symbol of cover grows back,
one by one, more determined than before.
And as the year passes, the spring does return,
and the protection again yawns and
allowing a blanket of light
to cure them of the passed drought.