It was not the words she recited
Or the lips she seldom puckered
It was her, she was the poem.
Amidst the commotion of negativities
Of people who wouldn't bother
To pluck the flower off the pot
The only flower, whom I loved.
I wished she'd say the same about me,
About us, about our lives, but
She talked of a problem-
Inextricable and impotent
And made my heart swirl-
That I was also a girl.
But I'll live and love and fear not
With her shy memories and a dry pot.