Sunflower hands catch falling Rose petals
Grunt. groan. sweat. tears.
Laboring to attach fallen rose petals to my Sunflower face
Aching for love. Longing to be lovely. Wishing I were as beautiful as she.
I must be her.
She is loved.
She is lovely.
She is a vessel by which men convey their love.
I must make her beauty stick to my plainness.
I labor to no avail.
It doesn’t work.
They won’t stick.
Nobody is fooled.
A sunflower will never be a rose.
Falling rose petals perish on the floor.
Hands no longer grasp for their beauty..
They won’t love me.
I’m a sunflower, not a rose.
And then,
He picked me.
He chose my beauty to convey His love.
I don’t have to be red. Or smell like a rose.
He made me just the way He wants me.
Her place doesn’t overshadow or nullify mine.
We both bring joy.
We both belong in the garden.
I love my yellow petals, green leaves.
I stand tall, turn my face to the Son,
And bask in the light of the one who
Thought this world needed my sunflower beauty,
Even though it already contained hers.
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