Masters of old/ told Lilly, Rose, and Heather/ they would blossom and/ be sweet/ like the cherry tree./ No need to speak of/ withering and fading away,/ as we all do,/ when tasting the nectar/ meant for other bees:/ Ones that beat their wings and buzz/ for their one true Queen;/ live the dance of their worshipping./ But Lilly grew fat to secret her petals/ from too much probing./ Rose sliced at her own sweet flesh/ until she bloomed a deep red./ And Heather drew tainted dew/ from the fetid soil where she sunk her roots./ Rains came / and pelted each relentlessly./ While the moon parsed/ solitude and silence,/ the sun brought forth/ a new beginning,/ lifting their faces/ to one another./ In the buffeting winds, / they swayed against each other/ and revealed/ their own stamens:/ Protuberances of possibility./ When their blossoms began to fade,/ as we all do,/ and drop away,/ wild forget-me-nots/ sprung from the wormy soil,/ save around Rose/ who poisoned the Earth/ for all those who/ came after her./ Even in death,/ she pricked grasping fingers/ with her tangled branches./ Even in death,/ her tinder-dry petals/ would not be denied/ their sweetness.