The flower dances in the sun,

But the leaf grants you shelter, only leaving to better herself once her job is done.”

She is my diary,

Her skin is paper,

Blue veins ink

Blossoming secrets beneath my fingers.

She changes with the seasons

Bursting with fire and ire

Before withering in retrospect.

Yet retreat is not loss:

It’s in quiet thought she blooms

Buds fresh with reflection:

Indeed, she is not green with naivety

But instead, perspective.

Every fall spurns growth

And an oath

To better;

Fragile and evermore.





Megan Hopkin
Illustration Nick Victor

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