Fortitude

The last flower of the season
blossomed after the final frost of November,
bright lipstick red with violet freckles,
laid one of its petals against the cool earth and sighed
as if she were a young girl preparing for her very first date
and hopefully her first kiss with a boy.

Next morning she stood taller, more resolute,
her petals fuller, wind strong,
a bubble of color against the browns of autumn.
A fierce breeze blew,
the sun entered an opening in the morning fog,
and the flower stood more erect
as if she were the young girl remembering the night before,
how she ended the date early
without a kiss she knew she could not handle.

On the third day,
it began to drizzle, and she swayed in the rhythm of rain
as if she were the young girl smiling on her way to school
thinking about how her date had ended
exactly as it needed to end,
how that thought and that thought alone
was the most important lesson she would ever need to learn.