Please, darling, don’t uproot me.
I know that it would be so easy--
perfect, even--to pull me out
and place me in that new vase
you bought at the pottery sale on Burbank Street.
It’s matte blue glaze so kindly compliments
my May blooming.
And I would burst forth in a glorious blaze
of passion and entrusted will; how stunning
I would be!
But I promise you--you will wake up tomorrow
and I will be dead.
You cannot keep me alive through hope alone.
You must leave me where I am, though it
does not please your heart. You must find
new ways to love me.
Please, dear, don’t uproot me.