This poem was the result...
A middle-aged woman sees ink on her fingers
Petals fall from a red flower in front of her
How strange to get flowers
That someone would give her one
The ink was what mattered, not her
Why would anyone notice her?
Why would she want to be noticed?
It was her words that mattered
Not the woman who wrote them
The woman was the words
Why waste time wanting flowers?
Yet flowers appeared in her stories
Petals fell around creations of perfect beauty
Beauty was always important
She thought she herself had none
It was all in her words
Captured on ink, delivered in prose
Don’t look at the ink stains
Look at the words
All my beauty is in each sentence
Look for me there
Only someone insisted it was in her face
Someone insisted on giving her a flower
She didn’t know what to do with it
She’d given up on romance
It was all in the ink
Look at the ink
Wash away her regrets with ink
Her life was written in ink
There is nothing more
Why would someone see more?
A trace of beauty, a hidden kindness
She no longer believed in these things
What could she do with the flower?
Where could she possibly put it?
Among all her notebooks marked with ink
She made a place for that flower
Uncertain if she wanted it
Uncertain of the giver
Sometimes she watches its petals fall
Watching its beauty wilt and fade
Like time, like life
Like every precious moment she had left
Trickling through her fingers
Soon all the petals will drop
The flower will be gone
That doesn’t make it any less pretty
A bright burst of color amidst an army of notebooks
An offering of the earth amidst offerings of ink.
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