Dr. Padmashree R P Poet Free verse

Rescuebloom

I buy myself flowers from the florist every Friday, 
without fail,
especially when money is tight.

Not roses that cost,
but the discounted carnations,
the slightly wilted tulips marked down
because they're past their prime,
because they've been sitting too long
under fluorescent lights
waiting for someone to notice
they're still beautiful.

Three hundred and fifty rupees.

That's what it costs
to give myself something lovely,
to witness blooming and fading,
to practice the small ceremony
of caring for something
that will not last.

People think it's sad,
buying yourself flowers.
Like it's admitting defeat,
that you're not worth
the grand romantic gesture,
the evidence of being chosen.

But I think they've got it backwards.

Buying yourself flowers is radical.
It's refusing to wait
for someone else to decide
you deserve beauty.
It's understanding that loving yourself
isn't narcissism
but survival.

Sometimes I choose the saddest bouquet,
the one headed for the dumpster,
and I take it home
and trim the stems
and give it clean water
and watch it revive,
and I think: this is what we do.

We rescue what we can.
The flowers teach me things.
They teach me that beauty is temporal,
that the point isn't permanence
but presence, 
being willing to bloom
even knowing you'll fade.

They teach me about worthiness,
that even the clearance flowers,
the flowers no one else wanted,
are worth rescuing.

And if that's true for flowers,
maybe it's true for me too.
Maybe I deserve fresh water,
a clean vase,
a sunny spot,
someone willing to do
the small daily work
of keeping me alive.

And if that someone is me, 
that's not sad.
That's revolutionary.

Every Friday, I walk past
a thousand things I could buy
and I choose flowers instead.
I choose the impractical,
the thing that serves
no purpose except beauty,
except the reminder
that life is more
than surviving.

Three hundred and fifty rupees.

That's what it costs
to say: I am worth this.
To insist that waiting for someone else
to decide you're worth flowers
is giving them power
over your beauty,
your joy,
your sense of deserving.

The flowers on my table
are blooming right now,
florist store lilies
dyed an improbable shade of purple,
fifty percent off,
almost thrown away,
rescued by someone
who knows what it's like
to need rescuing.

I am both the flowers
and the florist.
I am both the one
almost discarded
and the one who says:
not yet.

This one still has beauty in it.
This one is worth saving.
I water my flowers.
I water myself.

And for three hundred and fifty rupees,
I practice love.

♡Like0

Share Poem

---

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.

Please Login to post a comment