The Gardener came 'round, pruning his flowers. I looked down at my leaves: sorry and wilted. I glanced at my stem, sagging down. I looked at my face, surrounded by my dying, discoloring middle, and I let a few tears fall from my center. I was a useless flower, now. Autumn had come in all her fury and taken more of me than I'd prepared for. Since then, Winter has just blown my looser parts about. A leaf here. A petal there. I was an upside down umbrella handle leaning on the dirt for support: that porous, shifting, dry soil. I slumped even farther. But I patiently waited my turn to be watered. The only Maslow that I needed since Sun rarely come around. Gardener's water seemed to evaporate the moment it left the hole of his watering can. I remained dry as ever: a Sahara among Botanicals. Maybe, one season, I'll bloom and come to discover why Summer, Autumn, and Winter would be so harsh on me.

Today, I think Gardener heard me. I told him to dig me up, to pull and yank my roots so Winter could have its way. I told him I was ugly and almost no one believed I was a flower anymore. I sure didn't. I saw grey and death on my flower face. I told Gardener if he wouldn't pull me up that I'd pull myself up.

"The soil is loose enough," I said. "I'll recoil myself."

The Gardener's lips moved but I didn't hear a thing. With all my wilting, waining strength, I pulled and pulled at tiny roots: roots that were frail, I thought. That brought pain, but only for the moment. I pulled up all my own roots, bit by bit, and yelled at the Gardener: "I've no roots!"

"My dear, you've got soil. Dry as it is, dig again."

Gardner turned and left.

I dug again.