Oh, Caroline.
You asked me today in class what you could have been.
And, had I had the guts, I would have said a flower – but, of course,
I only say now what you had the potential to reach.
When we were fresh as daisies, grown from childhood,
Ready to take forth the world and spring up to teenagerhood –
In those days, you attracted the bees that flitted to you.
And yet, before you could reach greatness…
Like most flowers, you were no exception to what befalls many.
You were cut – plucked like the rest – and then you wilted
Crammed in a vase of identical flowers. Whilst you were once
The finest, tallest, greatest flower, you were no longer.
Then, like contagion, it spread. Vanity consumed those damasked petals,
And before you could possibly realise, a piece of you died.
Of course, the real you doesn’t die. But every day, like paint,
A piece of brickwork is revealed when the vibrancy slips away.
Oh, Caroline. Let’s hope that once again you’ll find May
And sprout up, strengthened by the ashes of what you once were.