I am rarely a bud found blushing in a dystopian movie.
Okay, bad start.
Our hopeful faces turn one by one toward the weak dawn light.
The filtered dawn breaks harsh over the landscape, creeping painfully slow over each dewy face.
We strain our energy toward the new day practicing our guiding principles;
Be content with your color.
Be content in all weather.
Be content in overcrowding or unaided and alone.
No root wrestling.
Not great, but now I’ve lost the chain.
I think, perhaps, we flora should be happy just to be beautiful and not worry too much about sounding clever with our language of flowering bouquet.
Indict me. Just, please don’t step on me.