Flourish

I’d gotten flowers for the first time one February. Roses, in a crystal vase. It was very much still winter, and that, I was certain, accounted for the bits of white Styrofoam added to the water. Sticking to the thornless stems. Not melting. My wild heart ached for the roses. Forced blooms and fake snow. An utterly unnatural charade. The only thing genuine about the roses was their color. Screaming red. Intense and urgent. A warning to me, not to settle. Not to sacrifice my truth. Of summer roses. Thriving in soil. Haven for bees and butterflies and wild hearts.