nature made her--
we either nurture or harm her
so we chose
to feed her judgement until
she was full of shame,
bloated by bruisers
or by blinking onlookers,
we insouciant passersby.
we watch her petals pull and fall--
why not give gravity hands;
it has none while she has some
with which to defend, to fight
back to the corner of the garden
from which we witnessed her sprout
so green, so vibrant-- delicacies of hope.
yet she leaves naivety in too swift a turn,
burned red to yellow to dead grey.
it is the natural order of things,
for her to shrivel as winter shrugs by
but we could have been spring.