Touch-me-not

Shy leaves—
that shrink themselves 
immediately 
with the touch of air. 

My mother, 
long fascinated by the plant 
that grows everywhere. 
Although shy, 
it has thrones— 
tiny, hidden 
but enough to hurt and bleed. 

The shy plant, 
but not kind, 
grows adamantly, 
undisturbed by harsh weed. 

She begged a little boy
to get her a sapling.
She wanted to adore 
the shy plant
as it contracts its leaves.

My father, 
her husband, 
blind to her wish—
wrapped his fingers 
around the sapling
threw it away, 
to grow something 
of his choosing

a money plant that decorates, 
at the cost of his wife's sapling

Was he not aware? 
Was he blind? 

I'm afraid I cannot answer so. 

Because I have stopped him 
from reaching out  
to a rogue touch-me-not,
reminding him 
of its thorns.

I watch the regret 
in his eyes, 
and the pride 
to not admit. 

My mother hid her pain, 
and my father—his guilt,
I do not know 
whether to be angry 
for her, 
or pity 
his ignorance.