I glanced out my May window,
and saw a pansy and her peers
in the snow with faces
cheery, appearing cherubic.
I praised these strong flowers and
asked them about their life with men.
They spoke of being trodden under foot, and
of hearing their name used and abused
to hurt, to maim, to wound others,
and so, their own way of being in the world.
I hung my head in shame.
Upon seeing this, these pansies
turned their heads to the sky, so that
I, too, might look up and perceive that
those closest to the earth have a worth
rooted in what those who trample
flowers will never know.