The Flower That Changes Its Mind

By Napuleon Sonowal

In my garden, at the first glimpse of morning

through the window near my bed, 

the cotton rose wakes —

Hibiscus Mutabilis opening white palms

to bless me and the bees with a day of wonder.

She cups a sip of dawn,

whispers her secret name to the breeze, 

petals soft as yesterday’s cloud,

uncertain what to believe.

By noon,

she recalls pink —

a gentle flush waking on her face;

not embarrassment, just sunlight

unraveling secrets

on a trembling breeze;

a shy confession of warmth,

half dream, half desire —

learning beauty can ache, too.

Dusk comes,

and those same petals finish red —

not with shame,

but from having lived a whole day

and dared to feel.

She closes deep as memory,

certain as evening rain.

The bush bears all these colors:

one blush, one story,

on a single, changeable stem.

Let others call it fickle.

At dusk, I glance at her again

and see a lesson in her changing —

that color is courage,

and the bravest heart

blooms again and again,

never quite the same.

She readies me for tomorrow —

for change will always come,

and all will be good again. 

By Napuleon Sonowal