Violet, fully empettled, far too
pretty for hard rains – cold
fistfuls slate grey barrage like
father’s insults - clumsy,
stupid girl.
My fault - must be more
careful, the drops don’t
know where, how hard, they fall only
that He Knows What's Good and
purple petals should be pretty
strong enough. Should be. Will.
All while water flows
washes and pushes a flower to
grow, if only the Sun would,
like a child’s awkward
toothy smile, shine - just
the littlest, tiniest bit longer.
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