Outside, the world is whisper quiet,
a blanket of snow pulled up to its chin,
growth happening only in dreams.
Birds flutter and scurry, cling to hope and hunger,
spend their days in search of food.
Mother Nature believes in tough love.
This flower, though forced, had life easy,
needing only to absorb and reach for the sun.
For days it filled my house with the scent of spring,
and if I closed my eyes, for just a second, it was.
Pretty and pampered,
this blossom knew nothing of the travails of life,
nothing of the burn of frost or the scorch of wind,
nothing of the cardinal stealing her seed,
nothing of competing for the warmth of the sun.
And yet, she withers, spent.
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