rooted in ash,
with wildfire
quietly burning
beneath soft petals

a rose set alight,
with leaves
that never begged
for rain

a quiet kind of burning
that never asked
to be put out

some passersby
picked the flower,
held her,
tried to care

some passersby
picked her
only to
give her away

but many walked
right over her
as if she were
just an empty flowerbed

as if she weren’t
a pretty flower
as if they didn’t see
the thorns
or know that petals bruise
when held too hard

as if softness
was made to be claimed
not protected

still,
she learned
how to bloom

she stood upright
in cracked earth
with broken stems
and blistered leaves

with fire
in her roots
with ashes
in her veins

reaching
always
for the light

she knew
some blooms open
only in harsh sun
some roots
push through broken ground
just to feel it

there were nights
she curled inward
like a rose
in frost

still,
she rose.

because some flowers still bloom
in places no one believed
anything could grow

and now
she is blooming
not despite the wildfire
but because of it