They filled her depth with nettle
Painted her mouth with oleander's nectar
Told her to pick marigolds and fashion daisies in her hair.
But her mouth drips with the scent of violets,
And her hair tumbles in sunflower waves.
They tried to smother her heart in black petunias
But the maranata unfolds as if it were basking in radiant day.
Though surrounded by thistles and forsaken like anemone
She is the alyssum, a delicate warrior worthy beyond this earth's beauty.
Though struggling in a bed of browallia, her cries are carried into the ebony,
She will sit beside a King's throne, her crown pinned with the lace of the Queen
Glimmering in vervain, worshiping in the holy of holies.