My mother was not alone,
For she had a lady with all she lacked.
Her name was a sweet blossom.
They were my saviors, my commanders, my explorers.
I shared these ladies with many,
Mostly my sister, daughter of the flowers.
The years traveled far greater distances than I,
Landing on opposite sides of the map.
The bear to my cub left with her own.
Yet the movie of the past played constantly.
When the sun lasted the longest, they bloomed.
A year of stories scorching my tongue.
A soothing voice, soft like lavender,
Did not prepare me for the winds of this storm.
The blossoms had opened and the sun was at its highest
Yet mother bear did not return with her cub.
My sister walked alone,
A dagger in her heart and black roses in her eyes.
Her tears watered the weeds,
Growing over the garden and suffocating the plants.
I came to accept that a hurricane so grand,
Could cause such devastation and despair.
We curled against our remaining mother,
And felt the cold winds beat against us.
The daughters had a garden wilted with loss,
Dying and leaving a hole echoing of vacancy.
It was filled with tulips and sunflowers.
The sun was at its highest and radiated out of us.
Empty space emitted hope;
The most challenging of flowers to grow.
The blossoms grew along with us.
Summers past, and the yearn for a renewing rain
Filled me but I could not handle a storm.
As cubs my sister and I shared mothers,
As adults we share dreams.
We stitched our stems together and desired a haven,
A place to teach others how to cherish such a blossom.