By • Jan 8th, 2016 • Category: Poems

“grief is perhaps the soil from which real flowers grow?”  Innocent was reticent once again – she and the Fool were sitting on a park bench, Innocent was holding a tiny red flower that she had just plucked from the flower bed, much to the Fool’s consternation, and it was starting to rain.

“real flowers?” the Fool was more mumbling to himself than anything else – wondering for a moment what Innocent meant by “real flowers.”

There was silence for a moment and then Innocent continued, “not the kind you buy in a store – or the paper kind that melt, or those ones that are so real that you water them, even though they are plastic and cloth, or the ones for sale that just last a few days, or ….”

“real flowers?” the Fool interrupted with an exclamation that was more an observation than a declaration,

Innocent paused and held the tiny red flower, twirling it in her fingertips;

The Fool stood, placing his hand over his chest, and continued, “real flowers always grow along the path of grief, for it is the breaking of the grain that sprouts the flame – and real flowers stand and face the fire and the pain and they endure for deepened roots bring real flowers blooming all around again.”

Satisfied with his delivery, he sat back on the bench, and smiled.

“just wondering,” came Innocent’s tiny voice as she twirled the flower and a smile came over her face, “i thought so!” she said.

From Conversations of The Fool and Innocent – BB Moon arr

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