Flower People
She’s given up on roses.
Her affection is strictly for dandelions.
Her first love, six years old at the time,
picked a bunch for her one May
without thought of reward or favor.
The roses’ crowd have always had
more in mind than just a humble
token of affection.
They expect, in exchange for
a twenty buck last minute buy
at the local florist
to be invited into her warm bed.
Dandelions are humble and
plentiful and the color of the sun.
Roses are bloody and thorned.
They eventually wilt, fall apart in her hands.
She can clearly remember
the hopeful expression of that little boy
when he came to her door
bearing sunshine on stalks.
Rose man always looks as if,
when she slips those blossoms
into a vase, that everything has
already been decided.
The dandelion is not meek
but it’s affectionately modest.
And the rose is proud,
as self-centered as its bearer.
So which, she wonders,
is the weed.
About the Author: John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.
Image Credit: Robert John Thornton “Dandelion” Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
As It Ought To Be 