When she was a little child,
someone had once picked her a red rose.
In the photograph that was later taken,
the child had stood in the middle laughing,
of that petaled red mess her hands had torn.
She hadn’t changed much,
some prefer the chaos,
until nature teaches you colors;
that red goes with green;
that flowers are better suited for trees,
pampered by the wind,
watched by men who pass,
never once touched to be broken,
May she always watch from afar.
You may never have the trouble,
for pricking your finger for trying;
and satisfying any beast;
Some people prefer to be taken to valleys of flowers,
for that’s the kind of love that will set them free.
Ochre Parchment 