I stole a wildflower from the Neighbor's garden

I stole a wildflower from the Neighbor’s garden

and plopped it into a terra cotta pot.

I packed in grainy, mineral salted soil

by the coffee spoon and demanded:

grow.

Grow away from the green zebra grass whipped yellow,

Thrive in the loamy earth encased by man-spun clay,

where no other flower can tickle your finger frond leaves;

away from the guarding shade of the cobblestone wall

put in place to keep intruders out.

It was when your green hands began to wrinkle that I leaned closer;

Your bright waxy luster replaced with liver-spotted grief,

an arthritic kink in the once proud, tall stem

your six white petals were eyes defeated;

wracked by indigo tears sputtering down like autumn’s frigid rain.

I returned you home then, wildflower

I planted you in the crater I stole you from,

restoring you once more to the zebra grass, the cobblestone wall,

and the neighbor, of course.

Your wrinkles darkened brown

like the coffee-stained spoon I killed you with.

The other flowers? They were crying too

while the zebra grass rustled a funeral hymn.