← All poemsThere is a particular kind of rose
that the gardeners have given up on.
They have labelled it wrong-season,
too late,
not enough light.
They have walked past it every morning
and not looked.
They have told it, through their inattention,
that it does not matter.
The rose does not know this.
The rose only knows one thing.
It is the same thing every rose has ever known,
in every garden,
in every February,
in every year that seemed too cold
for anything to survive:
*bloom anyway.*
—
This is a poem for every woman
who was told she was too much,
or not enough,
or both at once.
For every artist
whose work existed
before the world was ready.
For everyone who has ever stood
at a gate that would not open
and chosen, finally,
to grow something
in the space behind them instead.
The rejected rose does not need
the garden to recognise her.
She needs only light.
And she has that.