Flower Girl

How is it a gift
to be delicate and pleasing
when the winds and storms
of thine ungentle cares
crush me,
demanding, yet hating
the coarse strength
of bark and root?

But should I fall,
and indeed I may,
I know I’ll sprout
to bloom again
in thine sun;
delicate,
even if you blow me down
to renew the toil
of growth
and soil.

But what is the use?