How can petals lift one up when they—themselves—are down-drooping?
Pseudosopher posits that some are only meant to cheer opossums and bats, but even the tosticated sloth knows orientation matters not regarding a rose and its power to pink-tickle toes.
An integument scratched deserves a balm, so, perhaps, a twisted bloom merits some calm—by way of a spritz and a lamp and some hoot for the root.
Then, in that exemplary act of give-not-receive, one might find elevation in not the normed expectation, but from a self-revelation: boosts do share to the pair when handled with care. ; )