A Poem By Anna // 2/7/2011

You have been pushing, pushing
Pushing me
Until I am forced to open.

Grow, plant, grow.
Dig, roots, dig.

It started in May,
But I was still a bud
Until November.

Bloom, flower, bloom.
Drink, tendril, drink.

Now I’m shivering,
Too young to have petals
But not emerald alone.
It is now winter,
And I am going to die.
Thank you???

Live, rose, live.

You promised me
Not dead oaths, but
Flourishing, colorful covenants.
This is the wrong season
To be open and waiting!

Breathe, princess, breathe.

The truth? I’m scared.

Spring is possible.
Spring is coming.
You’ll be my queen rose yet.

*Primavera is the Italian word for spring.


Yes. I understand this all

Yes. I understand this all too well.

It is now winter,
And I am going to die.
Thank you?

You expressed that familiar blunt fear well, and God's rich tenderness too.

Annabel | Mon, 02/07/2011

I need to read this a few

I need to read this a few more times. Partly to better understand it, and also because I really liked it, especially its plant-y-ness. (Plantyness? Well, you know what I mean.) From the first lines I was drawn in. I liked the style and tone, it was simple but held a lot of meaning in an effortless sort of way. 

Hannah W. | Mon, 02/07/2011


 As I began to read your poem had a special kind of beauty to me, and presented a clear picture in my mind. I thought your imagery was an excellent way to get across what you were saying!

Kathleen | Mon, 02/07/2011

This was interesting and had

This was interesting and had a distinctive, graceful sort of rhythm to it.

E | Mon, 02/07/2011

"You were not meant to fit into a shallow box built by someone else." -J. Raymond

Thanks, everyone. It's a

Thanks, everyone. It's a true, ongoing story.

Anna | Thu, 02/10/2011

I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right. --The Book Thief


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