The Flower Child

The Flower Child

 

She was a beautiful child.

Everyone in the neighbourhood knew her, and even he who was in the foulest of tempers could not help but smirk when she passed.

It was the positive aura surrounding her that made her who she was.

The Flower Child rode her bike up and down the village all day with a basket full of Peonies.

Not another soul but her own knew where she obtained those beauties, for even the lowest class of amateur botanists knew its scarcity.

Yet, there she was, day after day, with a basket full of Peonies, enchanting the people with their unforgettable scent.

 

As she would ride along, she would stop for what it seemed no reason. She would get off her bike, fix her muddy sun-coloured dress, and cut off a flower from her basket. She would then hand out a Peony,

 to another wandering passer.

 

She spoke very little but still told a lot.

While handing out her defining plant, she would just smile and stare at her receiver for a while.

The receiver would often find herself or himself surprised to be the chosen one.

They would stare at the flower for a short period of time before breaking a smile accompanied by a grateful tear.

One looking from the outside could not understand the reaction of the people.

Was it not a routine delivery The Flower Child practised day after day?

She always began her day at dawn, with a dozen Peonies in her basket and went home once the moon was at its highest, with an empty one.

And yet, every person that was destined to receive the flower seemed genuinely appreciative of the act, as if it were the most unexpected and beautiful event of the day.

There were no random picking of who shall receive a Peony on which day. The Flower Child knew beforehand who was the destined recipient of the flower she cut.

Every Peony was meant to heal a specific soul as it was cut off from its roots.

 

She could only practise her activity until the one day she rode off to fill her basket once more

and found that there were none to see.

She felt as though her world collapsed and she found herself in a world where nothing seemed to make sense.

Because in the world she used to be, there would be a garden full of Peonies right under her feet.

And yet there was nothing more than a mud-filled garden with some parasite plants growing in places.

This was not her garden.

On that day, The Flower Child rode back into town for the first time with an empty basket.

She had no flower to give away to those weeping souls desperately in need.

 

The Flower Child looked at her village people, and saw in them the pieces of her she had given away.

She looked at them and saw herself in their widow-sill, where stood a Peony in a vase.

She looked at them and saw herself in their cars, where a Peony was hanging on the rear-view mirror.

She looked at them and saw herself on a loved-one’s grave, where rested a Peony.

However, this comfort was short lasting, for the Peonies slowly started fading.

 And with that, The Flower Child saw less and less of her in her world.

She had given away every bit of her she to the ones she had loved and found herself with an empty basket.

She had given away everything that made her herself, and knew no more who she was.

And with that, the townspeople forgot about The Flower Child, for herself and her Peonies became a myth.

 

 

YM

Reviews

[klaus]

Poetry has never been my thing but even I can see the beauty in this one. I don't know how long this took you YM23 but each line seemed intricately crafted and fitted in it's place beautifully. I also really liked the final paragraph/stanza. It gave a the poem a solemn beauty that is difficult to create. In fact the way the story unfolded reminded me of William Blake's poems, often starting with innocence and but gradually taking a more sorrowful tone. The difference is, however, that I didn't much like Blake's poetry but I really like this, to convey so much imagery and emotion in so few words is something special.

[YM23]

Thanks a lot! Means so much that you liked it

[Mary Bosworth]

A timely, reflective piece. Well written and pleasant to read

[YM23]

Thanks Mary

[R Smith]

it feels like how a fairy tale came into being and then lived in the world until it was exhausted by time and slipped into the memory of few to become myth, legend or just the fairy tale of generations passed down one to another, at least that was what i saw, this could easily have so many levels its amazing.

[YM23]

Thank you for your comment, glad you enjoyed it :)

[TheLastEclipse]

To me this is a story, but a very poetic one. I do enjoy it and I hope enjoy the descriptions you used. You gave my mind plenty to envision and plenty to ponder. I enjoy your creativity. I look forward to seeing more of your work.

[YM23]

Thank you for your review!