as a girl
you are a daisy
in a garden,
mistaken,
sometimes,
for an alluring weed--
plucked from the dirt
hastily tucked behind ears, then
discarded,
trampled,
buried in cold soil.
when you are recognized
as a daisy
they wish you were a rose in full bloom:
red;
thorns cut;
drops of rain on each petal
glistening in the sunshine.
as a woman you are that red rose
finally
after much duress,
the growing pains
of painting yourself red.
you have pricked many fingers,
been smothered under angry hands,
drowned by unrelenting rain showers,
suppressed by heavy, ceaseless frost,
beaten by pelting, unforgiving hail,
cut at the stem,
admired for your stillness,
silence.
beauty is the tamed,
the untouched
made captive.
cut from the stem,
your life source,
your home,
you glow slowly on the window sill,
a breathtaking image
for all to behold
until you turn grey.