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by Ben Ranney & Lori Williams

Long stemmed and delicate
waning in the wind
beneath cables.
She's able to feel the sun
reigning in weakness
she cannot run.
Roots are deep
intertwined with nightmares
no longer cares
she's wilting.

Nourished with kindness
she'll rise above.

Is this dying flower
prelude to love?
Alway too late they arrive
these gardeners of karma

Picking the saddest flower
in life's bouquet
the one hovering between
growth and withering.

Whose garden were you in
before her roots twisted so?

No warmth or moisture
no loving ministrations can be enough
once her petals begin to fall.

No love, except for self
shall make the flower bloom again.
Leave her to rise alone
or leave her to die.

Tis too late
for your touch


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