Member Poem

Before the Rose Blooms

I am born in a bud
in the breeze of early spring.
The wind jostles
my tear-shaped coat. A flush
of rain waters the garden.
Thunder pounds.

My petals curl for comfort
while the bud holds me—
trapped. Pressure on my pistil
keeps me in place. I ache
to be free.

The lack of light
makes my gloomy petals twist.
This hard, green shell
could wilt me: dead
colors forever unseen.

I refuse to suffocate
in a tight capsule,
so I take in painful breaths:
Breathe in, breathe out,
breathe in, breathe out.

The thunder calms
and the dense darkness
breaks. A blurry light
engulfs me. Its smoothness
releases my reds.

My sepals droop as the bud
widens. I shiver with warmth
and fear. I stretch
for the light but retract
myself. A blinding beam burns
me—a freshly stranded rose.