The only wisdom I possess,
was granted by the flora
when I once encountered, in distress
the Marigold Agora.
Beneath a brambled border,
bathed in buttery light,
my muddled mind meandered
on a mild, misgiving night.
I shuffled through the shadowed sage,
uncertain, uninspired
until, alas, my anxious gait
upon a glade conspired.
A thousand marigolds amassed
a miniature metropolis
with silken streets and saffron spires,
a sunlit, secret populace.
But blundering, my booted feet
befell their careful court,
and suddenly, the silent stems
erupted with report.
Their golden heads were flailing,
petals fluttered, frantic,
the tiniest of trembling shrieks
a floral, full-blown panic.
I staggered, stammered, “Sorry, friends!”
my heart a guilty drum
I’d stumbled on their sovereign soil
like some colossus come.
They scattered, scolding, scurrying,
bewailing, “What a brute!”
One marigold, most dignified,
wagged a dainty root:
“Clumsy creature, can’t you care
for creatures small and slight?
You crush our council’s careful craft
with careless, callous might!”
I shrank amidst their searing scorn,
mortified, abashed
yet marigolds are merciful,
with tempers quick to pass.
They offered me a fragile leaf,
a gentle, golden token,
and bid me bear their wisdom hence
a lesson softly spoken:
That every wild and wanton step
can shake a world unseen,
and kindness is a careful art
wherever feet have been.