Flowers

Flowers grow in the wild.
They grow simply, surely,
patiently, living.

They bathe in gentle rains
and sing their gentle scents.
They choose their favorite colors
from the wide spectrum
that the sun provides.

Their charm lies in the way
their petals slowly open,
each unfolding
in their own time,
a new hobby,
a new experience,
a new story.

As each blossoms after the other,
they tell stories together.
Flowers old tell flowers new,
that they bring life and hope to the world,
that when the time comes,
they will send each other off
wherever the wind takes them.

Flowers grow, too, in the farm,
where they fear the rains,
for each drop would bruise;
where they shun the light,
for the heat would burn
their beautiful, fragile petals.

Their petals rushed and empty
with the brightest colors
they would paint, if they could;
for their adoring admirers,
they make scents to make
them swoon.

When they arrive,
they lift their perfect faces
and scream for attention,
they push each other
into the shadows,
to be chosen, to be loved,
to be most beautiful,

then off they go, severed from their stems
to be loved for a beauty
to last a day.