Reckless Poem About a Flower

You are a flower
at the mercy of the sun
and are the center of the clouds
rotations
or
is it
that you believe yourself to be
in the center of the sun's rays
and beg for mercy
from the clouds
who periodically
reign down
with relief?

How do you stand it?
-all the time-
your stems straight up
with a head of petals,
such an ornament
is no light weight
to carry.

You can't run away.
I'd uproot
if I could,
but that's a lot
of shoes to find
and fill.
How does it feel down there?

Which is better:
The rain falling
and sliding down
your green cuticle
or having a shower
of water
that directly sinks
down to your
varicose roots?

I am a flower,
not a rose
or a golden sunflower
or any one of those
species
that like to catch
people's attention.
Call me a bush
or a shrub
and that's what
I am,
but I am not

I know nothing
of the flower
as I separate
it's young body
from the black
partitioned container
-it knew nothing
more of the world
than that,
by the time I
dug it's hole
-it's new container-
into the ground,
watered it
and
surrounded it with
soil.
Does it know anything
besides
itself
now?

Would you tell me
if you
did?

I'm not a plant,
but you are a flower
and I wonder about you
-too much-
I am thinking
and writing these thoughts
on the bone of my brain
while driving.

You are you,
being a flower,
and I being me,
am speeding down the rode,
because I forgot
to slow down my questions
and ask you simply
about being a flower
when I had the chance.