Shrink

Sometimes flowers shrink a little. The petals droop, the dirt is dry. And all the big trees will not understand. Yet.

One day, they will die too. But the flower knows the timing of the stem is right and it sways, in acceptance.

I cannot show a sorry girl. My sharp voice quickens my labors - efficiently is key in a busy kitchen. When crowds gather, a cheery laugh floats across the thick smell of bacon and burnt toast. Oh yes, the laugh must be mine. And I always mean it too.

But driving alone, the sun rolls down the sky almost as fast as the glass tear on my face. "Why is this happening? I am a happy girl. I have a warm husband and a lovely apartment." And I am happy - I mean it too.

But flowers are shrinking around me. And I am the tree. I am angry at the mountain, it never changes. But why did these friends come as flowers, and why must they go so fast? You take their elegance, their lovely faces that have brightened this Indian summer of life. "What about their pollen and their seeds?"

But all the big trees will never understand. The flower still sways, in acceptance. And the blue mountain watches over us all, until the heart of the earth swallows its greens and takes us home.

But I still mourn the flowers.