He finds himself, once again, in the field,
a meadow of millions upon millions of flowers,
each one slightly different from the next,
but all alike in their ignorance
of what lies outside their little field they call Earth.
But in the midst of this sea of flowers
he comes upon one extraordinary bloom,
a singular Rose,
dulling all that surrounds it with its radiance.
And no matter how hard he tries to fight it,
he knows he cannot, will not,
leave behind this bud.
So he plucks it from its little field—
from its fellow flowers
and takes it with him on his travels
so he can show her the universe,
guide her, protect her,
watch her blossom in her awe of Everything
and he delights in her brilliance—
allows himself to forget the cold and the pain
in the warmth of her presence.
And though it frightens him to think about it,
he cannot help but wonder if his taking this beautiful Rose
from the safety of its little field
was more for his own selfish need.
Because no amount of care or protection or love
can change the fact that picking flowers will, in time,
render them dead.