When I was a four-year-old,
The flowers made my decisions.
It was not your typical petal-plucking,
“He loves me, he loves me not,”
(I saved that for my later years.)
Or blowing the fluff off dandelions,
Naively hoping their little seeds
Would send our wishes into the universe,
(While instead, spreading the growth of weeds,
And killing the flowers I loved.)

Do the bright red tulips
In my front yard open or purse their lips?
The tulips answer me.
The sun appears, and their petals spread,
Meaning headband, not ponytail.

Do the cherry blossoms cling to the winding branches
Of the tree overlooking my driveway,
Or float onto the pavement?
The blossoms answer me.
They gently fall onto the concrete,
Decorating the chalk masterpieces
Left by my sister and me,
Meaning Barbie, not My Little Pony.

Do Blossom, Bubbles, and Buttercup,
The three rose bushes on the left side of my house,
Scratch my arm on my way
To the backyard for running so carelessly?
The rose bushes answer me.
I dash past, arms flailing,
Yet, they let me play another day
Without Neosporin,
Meaning marker, not crayon.

Can I smell the drying roses
Hanging upside down in the bathroom
In the hall as I pass?
The roses answer me.
I catch a whiff of them
In their pre-potpourri stage,
Meaning Barney, not Sesame Street.

The flowers that surrounded me
Helped me make these vital choices
In my life at the time,
Like vanilla, or chocolate.
If only life were still that simple;
So simple, that the flowers could make my decisions.