Life seems dark in the dead of winter.

Sometimes, the season never ends, 

It continues, continues, continues.

A flower starts to think it will never blossom again.

This must be the end.

Like a daffodil, my season comes and goes,

Almost in a loop but sometimes the cold nearly kills me.

I am surrounded in a bed of flowers:

A carnation, 

   Orchid, 

      Lily,

         Hydrangea,

            Portulaca,

               Lilac, 

                  Foxglove.

They ground me, intertwine their roots within mine. 

Until one day, my daffodil loses its connection, 

The roots grow weaker. 

The winter grows longer and longer,

The other flowers seem to continue through the seasons.

Bees buzzzzzz in the daffodil’s ear,

Taking nectar and staying longer than usual,

Making the daffodil feel powerful,

Able to pollinate.

But the bees stay too long.

Just as the daffodil gives in to the winter, 

Knowing it will never see spring again,

It feels a pull.

The bed of flowers sends vibrations of strength.

It starts with the

   Foxglove,

      Carnation

         Orchid.

The foxglove bends down to listen closely to the daffodil’s cries.

The carnation pats away the dew on its petals, 

Telling stories of their own cold winters.

The orchid bends just enough to extend their own petals,

Making sure the daffodil feels its warmth.

While it may be the first long winter for the daffodil, 

The other flowers know too well what to do.

No questions asked.

“We make our own seasons.”

We weep to our elders, friends, not wanting to put it on them.

When they ask questions, it is to make you think.

What is your favorite season?

What season should it be?

The hydrangea

   Lily, 

      Portulaca,

         Lilac,

Intertwine a little more.

The hydrangea tells pieces of their own story, 

And the lily asks the hard questions.

The portulaca, while small, listens intently,

While the lilac squeezes tighter.

We build a community with one another, 

When one flower falls, it will always have its bed of flowers.

The sun shines bright even on cloudy days.

When the love from the bed of flowers grows, 

So too does the strength of the daffodil.

The dark winter is no longer the only season, a necessary option,

So they change the season to the spring.

A new beginning. 

Thank you to the bed of flowers that keep me, 

My daffodil self, 

Going.

I thank my beautiful flowers that intertwine with me,

Never questioning why I may need a little more sun, dirt, water.

Thank you to all the flowers.

We are not alone.

Thank you for building a bed for me to grow.