My Poetry


The gardener buckles up his overalls and pushes his hat down over his curly mess of hair, then heads out into his green and brown landscape.

After months without rain, the little drops finally graced his land with its angelic beauty and nutrition.

He walks past his vegetables and his fruits, and heads over to his flowers.

He walks along the patch’s rectangle border, examining the flowers.

There’s short ones, tall ones, thin ones, blossomed ones. Green ones. White ones. Yellow ones. Red ones… But only one stands out to him.

He crouches down and examines the bleakest flower. It looks like it’s lived a long and desolate life.

It’s blacker than the night sky. It slouches like there’s no reason to look up. It reeks of the scent of a morgue or rotten milk. It looks crunchy as if it’ll crumble if you touch it. And instead of bees fluttering around it, there’s flies picking on it like coyotes.

But out of all of the flowers, this is the one the gardener wants for his table’s glass vase.

He pulls a pair of scissors out of his back pocket and snips the flower from its stem. Without the support of its roots it falls over to the side, like a baby learning to walk, leaving it with a scant amount of petals.

He gently grabs it from the dewy grass. Instead of crumbling and dismembering itself all over the patch of perfect flowers, it trembles nervously.

He caresses one of the flower’s flawed petals. The flower shakes with the might of an earthquake and lets out a loud scream that sounds like finished tea.

The flower jumps out of the gardener’s sweaty, callused, hands and goes into an aftershock.

Its black petals peel off like old skin. Its sharp thorns melt off and mingle with the grass. Its ominous stench is escorted away by the wind. Blasts of colors flicker across its face. First blue, then orange, then pink, then purple. Then it’s a fusion of all four colors with a small freckle of its original black.

 It is grotesque no more…

The gardener gathers the courage to pick up the flower again. He raises the flower to his nose. It smells new, enchanting. Like raw perfume.

The gardener twirls the flower in his earthy hands, mesmerized by its transformation and its beauty.

She is so stunning now.

She is so different now…

2 thoughts on “Metamorphosis…”

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