A Pome a Day for a Year

Petals widen, unfurl, curled at soft edges
as colours blossoms into patches
of small reds and yellows.

The flowers are thick, carpeting
the verdant forest floor,
insects protected from skittering birds
a ceiling of security.

One flower, grey, weak, struggles
to open, stamen bending under
the weight of expectation
and drive; forcing its wings
to spread, no avail.

Bursting forward, pushing against itself
it strains, and withers, and collapses
disappointment ekes throughout roots
and it steels.

The sky can be yours, the rains
the clouds, the sun, your own horizon,
you can be that bright shining plant,
you can, you can.