A long time ago,

there was a little yellow flower

with pink tips

who grew out of

a quiet cliff side.

Her roots were tender,

her petals delicate,

and her color,

bright.

For many years,

living on the cliff

was not easy

for the little flower,

but it was beautiful.

Small stones often

tumbled past,

striking the flower,

covering her in dust,

and shaking her stem.

Birds frequently landed

nearby to graze,

one even took a petal

from the flower's face.

That was a day for sorrow.

And then,

there were the thunderstorms.

Great barrages of rain

and wind crashed

into the cliff side,

shaking

the little flower

to her core.

As the years passed,

the little flower came back

every spring,

feeling fresh,

feeling bright,

ready for the storms and the winds,

ready for the birds and the dust,

even ready for the snuggle bees

who would fall asleep

and bend her neck

for several hours.

She was here to bring beauty

and she loved her purpose.

Sadly, one day,

a god wandered the cliff side.

He was a god who often took

what he wanted as soon as he saw it.

Having recently been rejected,

the god stomped on the cliff sides,

breaking branches and kicking

stones along his path.

As soon as he saw the little flower

he paused in his kicking.

"What a pretty little flower.

Would you like to come home

with me,

to my new cave,

and make it beautiful?"

The little flower only knew

one word, "Yes"

and even then she could not

voice it.

So she felt it,

and believed in

her purpose,

to bring beauty.

The god plucked her,

ripping her away from her roots.

Her core tore in half;

she did not expect such pain.

The little flower cried

out in silence

as the god

flew above the treetops,

landing in a dank cave

miles from the cliff.

"Here will be your

new home,"

the god said.

He took out a flask,

filled it with water

from a bucket

and placed

the little flower inside.

Her body grew calmer

as her stem cooled

in the cave water.

There wasn't much to look at

in the cave.

Mostly rocks and clutter.

When a week passed,

the god took her

from the water

and dried her off with a cloth.

Then he pulled a book

from his pocket,

opened it to the middle

and crushed the little flower

between the pages.

She could barely breathe.

Between sharp inhales,

and ragged exhales,

the little flower listened

to the god

as he hummed

and arranged rocks

around the cave.

He often journeyed to

and from the cave

with more gifts,

clearly stolen

from the cliff side.

Days passed and eventually

the little flower felt herself fade.

Her limbs dried up.

Her thirst,

unquenchable.

Her mind turned into fluff.

Days passed into months

and months passed into years.

The little flower's existence

became this book,

this prison of pages.

Her beauty, forgotten.

Over time,

she learned she was

entombed in a poetry book

for the words had come

out of the god's mouth once.

That had been a beautiful day.

The god had found the book

of poems again,

put them in his pocket,

and exited the cave.

The little flower had a chance

to smell the sea

and hear the cliff gulls cry.

If only she could

see the sky once more.

Bittersweet emotions

flowed through the flower that day.

If only she had spare rain

inside her being,

she felt as though

it would have dripped

from her petals.

Eventually, that day ended

and the god

dumped the book,

which he did not open,

on a rock at the back of the cave.

Many years passed,

some quieter than others.

The little flower was a different

flower now. Unmoving.

But she had learned a few things,

despite the misery.

She had learned the word, "lonely."

That empty dry feeling she had

every day.

She learned the word love,

the creamy rich longing

she had every day.

And she learned the word,

"powerless,"

that itchy, crackly

spike she felt every day.

Lonely, love, powerless.

She clung to the words

like they were her thunderstorms.

Dangerous.

Beautiful.

One night, when the god was out,

a figure entered the cave.

The flower sensed the figure

was nearby

when suddenly

the book opened

and the flower clearly saw

the face of a dryad.

The dryad was faded and glowing,

like a tree at the end of summer,

and there was depth

to their traveling cloak,

like an evening sky.

They smelled of peril and sunrise.

The flower waited to see

what the dryad would do.

"Little flower, you are crushed.

I don't have abundant time

left in this world,

and I sense the burden you carry

is great.

Quick, tell me what you seek."

The dryad held the flower

carefully in their palm.

"What is one wish

you would have granted?"

the dryad continued.

"For though

you have been wounded,

you are indeed fortuitous

this evening,

for my dying home

is a wishing tree,

and I've come to say farewell

to the world

one last time.

Before I depart,

what shall you have for yourself?"

The little flower thought

for a moment.

Of course she wanted her cliff side.

But she also felt hesitation.

The dryad nestled the little flower

to their cheek,

and listened

even though

the little flower

could not talk.

With a surprised look, the dryad

gently tapped

the little flower's head.

"Thank you," the little flower

said aloud.

"I'm afraid I cannot grant

you a second wish,"

the dryad said,

their voice beginning to wane.

Even their face and hands

were turning

translucent.

"It is my time."

The dryad placed the little flower

on the open poem

and closed their eyes.

The little flower whispered,

"Farewell."

For many days after,

the little flower

cried out in the cave,

her first sounds of life

echoing with grief.

As time passed,

the little flower

learned to sing to herself.

She sang laments,

she sang lullabies,

and eventually she recalled

sea shanties that sailors

would bring to the cliff side

with their sweethearts.

She sang every dirge, every carol.

She sang of trees and sun

and clouds.

One evening, when the flower

was composing

a poem to herself,

the god returned to the cave.

She watched him

in silence

and waited.

When he finally stood

near the open book,

she could wait no longer.

"How dare you!" she screamed.

The god was startled

and fell to the cave floor.

He picked up the little

dried flower with hesitation.

"You offered me a life of beauty!

And now, here I lie, forgotten,

shriveled, and festering!

I have never been more lonely

in my life.

And now that I finally

have a voice,

I have only

one question:

Why did you want me?"

The god shrugged

and dropped her

to the cave floor.

He left

and the little flower

was certain he would

never return.

Grateful to at least be

at a different angle,

the little flower strained

to see the sky at the cave entrance.

The stars glimmered that night,

and they gave her comfort.

But time felt long.

And wounds did not heal

as quickly as she would have hoped.

To the little flower's delight,

a thunderstorm

broke the darkness,

and even though it was tumultuous,

and distant, the little flower

could feel a hint of the wind,

and she relished

in the sound

of rain lashing against stone.

Suddenly, in the midst of the storm,

a figure appeared.

A young dryad this time,

covered in a pink spring glow,

skin the color of wet tree bark.

The dryad immediately walked

over to the little flower

and picked her up.

"I sense my mother's magic in you,"

they whispered.

"Oh, your mother was a lovely dryad,"

the little flower said,

sadness creeping into her tone.

They both paused,

washed over with old grief.

"Come with me," the dryad said,

placing the little flower carefully

inside cloth

and then inside

a pocket of their cloak.

As the dryad walked back

into the storm,

the rain lessened,

and the wind

softened

into a warm gush.

"How satisfying was your wish?"

the dryad asked

as they began to make their way

toward the ocean.

"I wished for my cliff side at first,

but then

I asked your mother

to grant me a voice

so that I could ask

the cruel god a question."

"And did that heal you?"

the dryad asked.

The flower was quiet,

"I do not feel healed.

All I see is my mistake.

My "yes" brought me

to the end of my life."

"I too have made mistakes,"

the dryad said.

They climbed a rocky path

and the wind whistled,

gently fluttering the cloak.

"Now," the dryad continued,

"I spend my time

learning from mistakes

as well as living with my mistakes."

"What does that mean?"

the little flower asked.

"Mistakes are my companions

who I must forgive,

almost every day," the dryad said.

"And now, we align like the planets

in a dance or a family of stars

in a pattern."

The little flower was quiet.

"Forgive" was a new word.

She liked it.

She wanted it.

"How do I forgive my mistake?"

the little flower asked.

The dryad stopped walking

and gently removed the little flower

from their pocket.

Smiling, the dryad leaned forward,

"You simply say

to your mistakes,

'I forgive you,'

and 'I love you,'

and 'I am learning

and I am doing my best.'"

The little flower repeated the words.

"I forgive you,

and I love you,

and I am learning

and I am doing my best."

And suddenly the air

seemed to crackle

and shimmer

as the little flower

took a yawning breath.

The dryad smiled and gently

dug a hole in the cliff side.

The little flower looked around,

her stem was fresh and new,

and surprisingly covered in thorns.

Her roots were long and robust

this time,

and her petals

were brighter,

gleaming

in the patch of sun

that broke through

the last of the storm clouds.

"Visit me?" the little flower asked.

"Every spring as long as I live,"

the dryad said.

Then they kissed the little flower

and disappeared around

the side of the cliff

where the forest grows thick.

Never again did the little flower

say "yes" to a god.

Never again did the little flower

spend her days in silence.

She sang every day, she talked

to birds and bugs,

and even a mouse.

And every spring, her friend,

the young dryad,

visited,

and they talked of thunder

and sunshine,

starlight and moons.

And every evening as the sun set

in a blaze of colors,

the little flower sang

a lullaby about forgiveness,

so that in the end,

she was the companion

of her own mistakes,

the gardener

of her own love,

there, on a quiet cliff side.