Do not grudge a woman her quiet imitation of a flower,
Though you may say it's only a daisy, and how obviously
She's tripping over metaphors.
Maybe she never knew how to open her face like that
And honor the sun with her simplicity,
Without holding a thousand small intentions in reserve.
And maybe she's never known the art of holding her own space
Without her silence turning into acquiescence,
Trusting the slender stalk of her being
To waft her fragrance out across the field grasses
She towers over, wondering when the wind
Will come to stir her essence up
With others now that she has learned how to be still,
To bend and open.
Do not grudge her all the beauty of her silence.