No. 10 by Kaitlinn Rose
If you say I am a flower, I will not be flattered
I know what little children like you do to gardens.
You do not know the long winter I have endured.
You haven't sat to hear how I ascended from the dirt.
How could you speak of the beauty and colors of my pedals?
They’re not for your marveling if you are so unwilling.
A rain drop may make its way into my core
and permeate through my careful raveling.
It is not for you to poke your curious finger inside
trying to forge the sundering of my still concealed center.
And if you think me to be pretty, that is the least of me.
I have grown, was at a time mistaken for a pebble or rock
thrown underneath and arose out of the muck .
I harvest life, I cradle a future, substance nestled inside me.