The gods were petty when they made you. They were filled with rage from jealousy, so you were hid just below the topsoil. Now you bloom every spring and through the late summer, then die back as the cold resets dominion from petal to leaf. Reds, oranges and yellows take from pink and white. Fragrance is lost as crisp evening air blankets the sunsets.
Your heart beats a short bloom, barely able to take one breath among fifty-two. Colors dying back to mush.
You come back though. You need the cold to remind you how much you love the warmth, as if you could forget so easily. The sun is your life and without it you would fall, or refuse to grow at all.
And although you display yourself in many colors of vibrant beauty, you do not long for attention. Stealing away to anonymity. You don’t mind being observed, as long as it’s without witness.
You are a bomb that was too much for jealous minds. Healing gods with your beauty. Now they’re all gone and you remain, year after year. Beauty always wins in the end. Beauty never dies.
A Hopeless Romantic, Stirred 