I am the flower that crumbles in autumn
my petals scattering about the fields and chilly avenues
stepped on by the people I hold too close to me,
because that’s the kind of brittle flower I make myself seem to be,
I would rather be carried underneath the soles of your feet,
than to have to be the lonely pieces carried through the wind.
I don’t want that.
I am not perennial. I barely last the year.
But if you wipe your feet on the doorstep,
and leave me on your filthy mats,
At least I’ll know I’m home.
That is what home is,
right?
I am nothing like the roses that bed in vases on your granite tables,
because my fragrance is barren and my stem is unstable
I am a rotten mess,
I’ll slumber with the dust, because that’s what I’ll be soon
Come winter time, you’ll throw me out in the iron snow
and I’ll learn how to plant my roots with frozen grass because they’ll be too still to neglect me,
And I’ll lie numb until February ends, and hope that they forgive me.
