Writer

Yes, a flower will bloom because it’s in its nature. If there is sunshine and water and nutrients it will open up, offering its gift of fragrance to the world. It cannot know if because of its beauty, someone will come by and cut it to put in a vase, or in her hair, or in a funeral tribute to comfort the bereaved. The flower then becomes an essence, an emotion, a symbol, a sacrifice.

I don’t mind if my gift is received in service to the world, but for Heaven’s sake let me bloom first. Allow my petals to unfurl in delicate acts of yellow hubris. Allow the stamens to stretch out towards the sky, shaking their dusty anthers like lion’s mane, in glorious elocution.

Cut when the scent’s ripe, when the spirits are high, when the nectar is ample.

Cut because you love me, because I am meaningful, because I help you be.

Beware!

Don’t cut me when I’m tender, when I’m learning to bud, when I’m in your and the sun’s care. Then it’s a pity; you will never know the depths your heart could reach.