The Garden

Flowers are sweet.

Bees can sting, the last thing I heard was the songbird sing.

Friendly pollinators make the flowers shake and tilt.

All the while, you left me lying there buried in the silt.

Buried,  buried so deep I would never reach the light.

Sprouting in the darkness was a useless task; Sprouting was only for those who were free.

Laying there compressed by the weight of the soil, I had begun to sprout.

Clawing toward the surface, breaking through that last bit of rock,

peering up at those red, purple, and white flowers let me know I could stay awake.