By Kylee Botten
The Florist is a poem that I wrote about discovering relationships that bring out confidence and self-love. I chose to write from the perspective of a wildflower as I felt it was the perfect symbolism of inner beauty which is often lost in the idea of outward appearance. Wildflowers, in my mind, are intriguing as they appear at random, yet create the most beautiful wild arrangements.
The poem tells a story of a wildflower once seen only as something to have, not something to truly want. As the poem unfolds, the wildflower begins to recognize its own worth and detect the right relationship that can foster healthy change.
Although The Florist in my life is someone extremely important to me, I hope that when others read my poem, they can imagine who their Florist might be. Whether that’s a family member, a friend, a religious figure, or a current relationship. My message is this: understand your worth and who you are as a person, so that you are able to recognize the type of relationships that bring out the real you and not cause you to change for anyone but yourself.
The Florist
I am a wildflower,
only noticeable by ones who wandered.
In those days,
of grief, sorrow, and envy,
I grew only for others.
Few wanderers passed,
when I was just a weed.
So young, so new,
I stood tall, and I grew.
The first to catch a glimpse,
saw me still blooming.
He called me pretty,
said my corolla bloomed in bold colour,
one that contrasted my eyes
with unspeakable beauty.
One day,
perched in my lonely glade,
I watched him leave.
He loves me, he loves me not,
he loved me, he loves me not.
My petals drooped,
my stem withered,
but my roots–
my roots held strong.
Wanderers turned to hunters,
and I became a thing of importance.
But to be desired,
and feel wanted,
became a performance.
These hunters were cruel,
they tugged and they pulled,
tried to rip me clean.
But my roots held strong,
as they always had, because–
I am a wildflower.
As time passed,
I thinned.
Torn by every hand
that tried to rip me from my base.
Then I met an explorer.
He was gentle with me at first.
With glue and tape,
he fixed my petals that had fallen.
As days stretched longer,
and sun shined brighter,
my wilt became harder to hide.
He wouldn’t show me to his friends.
Maybe my petals were too battered,
or my stem, not thin enough.
In one breath,
without a reason, without a goodbye,
irate footsteps approached from behind.
He yanked me from the ground,
sudden,
and violent.
I stopped blooming.
Drowning in the weight of my dew.
He dragged me around,
my roots gone,
glue no longer holding me together.
Then he tossed me into a bush,
where no wanderer, hunter, or explorer
would even think to look.
He never said a reason.
He only uttered words of excuses.
My love for you is no longer,
I need to explore on my own,
without the weight of your petals.
Day and night,
I lay there.
My petals grew pale,
my stem grew weak.
Then–
the florist found me.
With hands so soft,
he lifted me gently,
careful not to break me further.
He pulled me from the bush
and walked me down the trail,
showing me the world.
He told me; the world around us was not important,
for the world I need is in my hands.
My petals flushed.
I never knew,
losing petals was normal.
I never knew,
flowers grew in bunches.
I never knew,
someone could be so gentle.
I saw shades of petals
much prettier and brighter than mine.
But still.
Him.
The florist.
He chose me.
He brought me to a place,
where all kinds of flowers lived.
But he did not place me with the rest.
No.
He gave me my own home.
A vase of pink stained glass.
Light shined through,
filling the room with warmth
and a pink haze,
making the florist smile.
What a perfect smile he had.
He filled the vase,
half water,
half love.
He placed me inside,
and told me I was pretty.
But this time,
he called me pretty
for the way light danced on my skin.
This time,
for the way my words flowed
like a tender love song.
This time,
not for the width of my stem
or colour of my petals.
He reached into a drawer,
not for glue to fixed my tears and gaps,
but bandages so I could heal.
The sun began to set,
and the end of the box neared.
He looked at me like I was a rose,
orchid, or dahlia.
And still–
he looked at me.
The florist told me every day the
beauty of my roots.
Slowly,
my petals returned,
my scars faded,
and my colour shined brighter than ever.
I learned not to trust wanderers,
hunters,
or explorers.
They admired only the beauty of my petals and stem,
But him.
The florist...
He saw me for so much more than my beauty.
He saw the rarity in my roots,
radiance in my petals,
and strength in my scars.