She's a marigold.
Practical and pleasant,
But given a closer look- stunning and unique-
Fraught with folds that ripple with the hues of a sunset
Exploding one morning while the dew is still drowsy-
frost having finally surrendered
in the shadows of an early spring garden,
With her tangy, fresh scent of good humored candor;
Playing with new found light
But the glee can end suddenly

And me? I tried to blame reality
for the little gain and unending pain it caused me…

But it's pointless to press charges on the inevitable-
one cannot whisk away the will of misshapen fate.

The unauthorized mutation of cells will, without fail,
carry out its mission of self-destruct
powered by who knows what

We fight the force, anyway
to maintain the simple luxury of routine and the blissful dignity of her being,

But it's never enough
How can it be?
When the mystery of death consumes more than the disease itself.

The flowers start to fade
The meek wonders of yesterday are forgotten
Hope is discarded to make room for the
hardly fathomable
conclusion

The frost finally finds its way
to those satisfied with naiveté
leaving us no easy way
but to brave the pain and sustain
the beauty in what remains-
a green leaf; a crisp cornered cutting of the last bloom
Because that's what will matter when all this stress and confusion settles
and is gone.

Eventually, the dreaded frost will find a way
to overtake our temporary beauty

And while at first unbearable
to witness the remnants of but a frail stalk,
You'll notice that the finale
of a cold, Winter rain
reveals that marvelous smell
of Marigolds in the Spring
seeping into the soil-
strengthening that gardens tender veins
relieved of pain
reacquainted with purpose
Because the garden remembers-
that tangy, fresh fragrance of
a Marigold.