Death is a preventable fiction. I am blooming now
like never before, standing tall and so healthy that
surely I will be passed over. Only someone truly
cruel would look at my orange petals, the mosaic
I have made out of sun, to represent the sun,
and say I should not live to see December, then
another spring, another summer. I will be the first
of my kind, in our portion of earth, to make it
through to the other side—because I have
made myself beautiful. I have been useful.
The bee came again yesterday, but she was
slower, less hungry. Still, she whispered her plan
to me, how she will fly so fast, up into the cold sky,
that no one can catch her. I told her I will be here
when it’s safe to come back. I will feed her then.
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11 thoughts on “Zinnia”
You capture that moment ” it will never happen to me” beautifully. A clever poem. And full of heart,
Thanks, Jack! It’s always bittersweet to see those last flowers standing proudly.
the vanity of beauty…the cluelessness of the masses
until it does…and it will.
Indeed! Poor zinnia.
I love the personification you have used here, giving thoughts to the zinnia.
Very nice! 🙂
Thanks, misunderstood! I do like persona poems.
Very nice! If only we could find a way to live forever, we would certainly have to endure a lot.
Thanks, Katie — and you make a great point.
Your words just broke my heart, and yet I know flowers and bees come again in spring. Well done!
WOW, Marilyn! Another amazing persona! I love the Old-Testament images here. They give the zinnia and bee the cosmic weight of myth.