The Artichoke
If I had tended my garden I would have cut this small artichoke.
I would have slathered its petals in butter, scraping sweet flesh with merciless teeth.
If I had paid more attention, I would have eaten it’s heart, discarding the pointed bits. I wouldn’t have the patience to pick these smallest petals while being mindful of that final poking protection, just above the choke.
I wouldn't have considered how delicately translucent and tender those petals become when softened by the heat of my steam.
If I had tended my garden, I would have peeled her stem and sliced bits of it into bites that sacrifice nothing for the gift of her to my senses.
I walked away and life took over. I figured she would always be around. She would always be the same growing bud.
In the heat of our sun, without a drop to drink or anything more from me, she blossomed.
Without me, she shares her beauty with the world.
If I had tended my garden, she would have never blossomed.
The unedible choke would have never transformed from pale bristles laying neatly into soft violet hair standing proudly in the sun.
She would not have known thirst or hunger.
She would not have to learn how to live with what she has.
She would not have transitioned from what was into what could be.
She could never be what she was meant to be, if all she had was purpose found in pleasing me.