“Melancholy Marigold”

I watched as you were felled.

A trembling leaf, a newborn,

just being written.

You were so small,

a seed in the arms of your whitman,

who cared for you.

The day it happened was a pretty one, so blue it was as if a sapphire melted,

dripping all over the sky’s yellow smock.

You were sitting in the garden, letting the breeze play with your hair.

I watched with pursed lips as your caregiver smoothed the mess back, tying it up with a red ribbon.

Your shoulders slumped under the weight of his expectations, his vision of what you should be.

I had brought it up in conversation before, only succeeding in getting the man very cross with me.

He knew what he was doing, what he was writing.

I believed him.

While distant and rather moody, your guardian was rarely lead astray.

But you never were quite enough for the man, and I felt sorry for you both,

because you loved each other.

That fact made it all the worse,

when he ripped you in two and tossed you in the crimson grass.

I was never able to tell which of you were the one bleeding.

Your architect clutched his ink-stained kerchief to his mouth as he watched you writhe in the new patch of tulips, their arms just beginning to bud.

You looked up at him with tired eyes,

scratched out and revised to the point of breaking.

I later learned that the red was from your makers pen,

thrown askew from his sullen outburst,

and dripping into the green.

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