A long time ago, there was a little yellow flower with pink tips who grew out of a quiet cliff side.

Her roots were tender, her petals delicate, and her color, bright.

For many years, living on the cliff was not easy for the little flower, but it was beautiful.

Small stones often tumbled past, striking the flower, covering her in dust, and shaking her stem.

Birds frequently landed nearby to graze, one even took a petal from the flower's face.

That was a day for sorrow.

And then, there were the thunderstorms.

Great barrages of rain and wind crashed into the cliff side, shaking the little flower to her core.

As the years passed, the little flower came back every spring, feeling fresh, feeling bright, ready for the storms and the winds, ready for the birds and the dust, even ready for the snuggle bees who would fall asleep and bend her neck for several hours.

She was here to bring beauty and she loved her purpose.

Sadly, one day, a god wandered the cliff side.

He was a god who often took what he wanted as soon as he saw it.

Having recently been rejected, the god stomped on the cliff sides, breaking branches and kicking stones along his path.

As soon as he saw the little flower he paused in his kicking.

"What a pretty little flower. Would you like to come home with me, to my new cave, and make it beautiful?"

The little flower only knew one word, "Yes" and even then she could not voice it.

So she felt it, and believed in her purpose, to bring beauty.

The god plucked her, ripping her away from her roots.

Her core tore in half; she did not expect such pain.

The little flower cried out in silence as the god flew above the treetops, landing in a dank cave miles from the cliff.

"Here will be your new home," the god said.

He took out a flask, filled it with water from a bucket and placed the little flower inside.

Her body grew calmer as her stem cooled in the cave water.

There wasn't much to look at in the cave. Mostly rocks and clutter.

When a week passed, the god took her from the water and dried her off with a cloth.

Then he pulled a book from his pocket, opened it to the middle and crushed the little flower between the pages.

She could barely breathe.

Between sharp inhales, and ragged exhales, the little flower listened to the god as he hummed and arranged rocks around the cave.

He often journeyed to and from the cave returning with more gifts, stolen from the cliff side.

Days passed and eventually the little flower felt herself fade.

Her limbs dried up.

Her thirst, unquenchable.

Her mind turned into fluff.

Days passed into months and months passed into years.

The little flower's existence became this book, this prison of pages.

Her beauty, forgotten.

Over time, she learned she was entombed in a poetry book for the words had come out of the god's mouth once.

That had been a beautiful day.

The god had found the book of poems again, put them in his pocket, and exited the cave.

The little flower had a chance to smell the sea and hear the cliff gulls cry.

If only she could see the sky once more.

Bittersweet emotions flowed through the flower that day.

If only she had spare rain inside her being, she felt as though it would have dripped from her petals.

Eventually, that day ended and the god dumped the book, which he did not open, on a rock at the back of the cave.

Many years passed, some quieter than others.

The little flower was a different flower now.

Unmoving.

But she had learned a few things, despite the misery.

She had learned the word, "lonely."

That empty dry feeling she had every day.

She learned the word love, the creamy rich longing she had every day.

And she learned the word, "powerless," that itchy, crackly spike she felt every day.

Lonely, love, powerless.

She clung to the words like they were her thunderstorms.

Dangerous and beautiful.

One night, when the god was out, a figure entered the cave.

The flower sensed the figure was nearby when suddenly the book opened and the flower clearly saw the face of a dryad.

The dryad was faded and glowing, at the same time, they reminded the little flower of a tree at the end of summer; and there was depth to their traveling cloak, similar to an evening sky.

They smelled of peril and sunrise.

The flower waited to see what the dryad would do.

"Little flower, you are crushed. I don't have abundant time left in this world, and I sense the burden you carry is great. Quick, tell me what you seek."

The dryad held the flower carefully in their palm.

The little flower could not speak, so she waited.

"What is one wish you would have granted?" the dryad continued.

"For though you have been wounded, you are indeed fortuitous, my dying home is a wishing tree.

Before I depart, what shall you have for yourself?"

The little flower thought for a moment.

Of course she wanted her cliff side.

But she also felt hesitation.

The dryad nestled the little flower to their cheek, and listened even though the little flower had no outside words.

With a surprised look, the dryad gently tapped the little flower's head.

"Thank you," the little flower said aloud.

"I'm afraid I cannot grant you a second wish," the dryad said, their voice beginning to wane.

Even their face and hands were turning translucent.

"It is my time."

The dryad placed the little flower on the open poem and closed their eyes.

The little flower whispered, “Farewell,” as the dryad vanished.

For many days after, the little flower cried out in the cave, her first sounds of life echoing with grief.

As time passed, the little flower learned to sing to herself.

She sang laments, she sang lullabies, and eventually she recalled sea shanties that sailors would bring to the cliff side with their sweethearts.

She sang every dirge, every carol. She sang of trees and sun and clouds.

One evening, when the flower was composing a poem to herself, the god returned to the cave.

She watched him in silence and waited.

When he finally stood near the open book, she could wait no longer.

"How dare you!" she screamed.

The god was startled and fell to the cave floor.

He picked up the little dried flower with hesitation.

"You offered me a life of beauty! And now, here I lie, forgotten, shriveled, and festering! I have never been more lonely in my life.

And now that I finally have a voice, I have only one question: Why did you want me?"

The god shrugged and dropped her to the cave floor.

He left and the little flower was certain he would never return.

Grateful to at least be at a different angle, the little flower strained to see the sky at the cave entrance.

The stars glimmered that night, and they gave her comfort.

But time felt long.

And wounds did not heal as quickly as she would have hoped.

To the little flower's delight, a thunderstorm broke the darkness, and even though it was tumultuous, and distant, the little flower could feel a hint of the wind, and she relished in the sound of rain lashing against stone.

Suddenly, in the midst of the storm, a figure appeared.

A young dryad this time, covered in a pink spring glow, skin the color of wet tree bark.

The dryad immediately walked over to the little flower and picked her up.

"I sense my mother's magic in you," they whispered.

"Oh, your mother was a lovely dryad," the little flower said, sadness creeping into her tone.

They both paused, washed over with old grief.

"Come with me," the dryad said, placing the little flower carefully inside a cloth and then inside a pocket of their cloak.

As the dryad walked back into the storm, the rain lessened, and the wind softened into a warm gush.

"How satisfying was your wish?" the dryad asked as they began to make their way toward the ocean.

"I wished for my cliff side at first, but then I asked your mother to grant me a voice so that I could ask the cruel god a question."

"And did that heal you?" the dryad asked.

The flower was quiet, "I do not feel healed. All I see is my mistake. My ‘yes’ brought me to the end of my life."

"I too have made mistakes," the dryad said.

They climbed a rocky path and the wind whistled, gently fluttering the cloak.

"But," the dryad continued,

"I spend my time learning from mistakes as well as living with my mistakes."

"What does that mean?" the little flower asked.

"Mistakes are my companions who I must forgive, almost every day," the dryad said.

The little flower was quiet. "Forgive" was a new word.

She liked it.

She wanted it.

"How do I forgive my mistake?" the little flower asked.

The dryad stopped walking and gently removed the little flower from their pocket.

Smiling, the dryad leaned forward, "You simply say to your mistakes, 'I forgive you,' and 'I love you,' and 'I am learning and I am doing my best.'"

The little flower repeated the words. "I forgive you, and I love you, and I am learning and I am doing my best."

And suddenly the air seemed to crackle and shimmer as the little flower took a yawning breath.

The dryad smiled and gently dug a hole in the cliff side.

The little flower looked around, her stem was fresh and new, and surprisingly covered in thorns.

Her roots were long and robust this time, and her petals were brighter, gleaming in the patch of sun that broke through the last of the storm clouds.

"Visit me?" the little flower asked.

"Every spring as long as I live," the dryad said.

Then they kissed the little flower and disappeared around the side of the cliff where the forest grows thick.

Never again did the little flower say "yes" to a god.

Never again did the little flower spend her days in silence.

She sang every day, she talked to birds and bugs, and even a mouse.

And every spring, her friend, the young dryad, visited, and they talked of thunder and sunshine, starlight and moons.

And every evening as the sun set in a blaze of colors, the little flower sang a lullaby about forgiveness, so that in the end, she was the companion of her own mistakes, the gardener of her own love, there, on a quiet cliff side.