As he stood looking through the back window
at my english tea roses,
he said he couldn’t tell the difference
between the movement of the flowers
from the wind or from the rain.
How could you not, I replied,
confused by his lack of eyesight and insight.
When my roses are moved by the wind,
they move as one. Pink headed soldiers
lead by a strict drill sergeant,
each unwilling to be called out
for breaking formation
or for being the weak link in the chain.
Eager recruits desiring to satisfy their sergeant’s
When my roses are moved by the rain,
each petal dances independently of the others
to the rhythm of the raindrops.
A single drop kissing the petal,
like a passionate lover
toying with his sweetheart’s emotions.
I can almost hear their squeals of delight
floating through the air.
He laughed, saying I was foolish
to have given so much thought
to such an insignificant thing.
I cried, thinking him thoughtless
for ignoring one of the small beauties
of this world.
Arlene Antoinette enjoys writing poetry and flash fiction. More of her work may be found at: Sick Lit Mag, GIRLSENSE AND NONSENSE, Boston Accent Lit and The Ginger Collect.