Forget-me-not in broken couplets

by Elizabeth Norman

cover photo by sylvie lam, modeled by lilia brack

The love a young child has

For a flower

Is unusual, odd, a small distance away

From what is considered true love.

It’s not brotherly love, nor romantic,

But the love for something purely aesthetic.

The desire to pick her, have her be your own

Forever.

The sad truth is that no flower

Lasts; off the root, they barely survive a few weeks.

Not to mention

Forever.

As soon as the flower is plucked,

The drain of its beauty commences.

The child, loving it no more,

Tosses it out with Sunday’s rubbish.

There is something to be said about the life of a flower

Killed out of love, only for the lover

Interests dampened so close to the other’s demise

And proceed onward without a second thought.

The flower might not mind.

I (myself),

I wouldn’t mind. To be loved

And then forgotten

It’s a quote about regret,

Said Tennyson, Alfred,

Living slightly longer just to wilt

Ripening to withering, all on your own.

Out of the two,

Which is the better choice?