The flowers of my soul were wilted.

with water absent;

dripping from the stems.

The crusted petals

fell off.

Slowly,

the vibrant colors faded

in a glimpse.

These poor, desperate flowers

in the dry desolate garden of my mind

were looking,

searching,

longing,

needing,

something to bring them back to life.

The flowers of my soul were inpatient.

they waited;

in the scorched earth

and stared

hopelessly at the angry sun,

wondering why

rain never came.

The flowers of my soul were relieved

when one day

a person finally came

to tend them.

they called her

“Self Care.”

She watered them daily,

Sometimes with her sadness,

Sometimes with her tears of joy.

She plucked the bad ones

when they wouldn’t sprout--

But then,

She planted new ones.

She called them

“Second Chances.”

The flowers of my soul

may not be the most beautiful,

or elaborate,

It took a long time

for them to grow.

The flowers of my soul die sometimes.

But a new one will always sprout from the earth,

budding beautifully in radiant colors

And the flowers of my soul

survive.