A Metaphor

I cried the morning after he gave it to me.

I saw
a hasty, last-minute purchase
with grass growing out of the center
not decorative texture-grass
but the kind of grass I try to keep out of the flower garden
as though it had been left untended for quite some time
I saw the subtle disregard as a metaphor
and I cried.

Unwisely, I compared
it to the one we gave his mother
a stunning planter of white hydrangeas
bedecked with ribbon and bordered with trailing vines
blossoms bigger than baseballs
dramatic, understated, yet sensational
and I felt...
less than.

But because it was from him
I loved it, took care of it
placed it right out in front
made sure it got plenty of refreshing water
and affectionate sunshine

It began to grow on me

Today I saw
a container overflowing with cascading blossoms
in my favorite colors, the tertiaries –
clusters of red-orange, blue-violet, yellow-green
thriving in the rain and the sunshine
casting playful shadows across the steps
and smiling at me from the porch, a metaphor
I couldn't help but cry again

I'm sorry, Honey
I was wrong
I didn't see

How beautiful it is!