“When Flowers Die”
When flowers die
Do they cry
As they wither in the frost of silver snow?
When flowers bloom
Do they feel naked, frightened?
Do they try to fold into their lost robes again?
Do they feel like our eyes rape them of something,
Of love, of pride,
When flowers love,
Do they drink of each others’ scent
‘Til drunk as butterflies in blue skies
That came and went?
Do they perfume heavily of sweet, airy syrup,
Drenching the world in laughter and song
As life is forever,
As if the day would be the day ever long?
Do they reach for themselves and empty space
Holding both in their petalled palms
Giving and yet taking
Those gold-coined alms?
When flowers hate,
Do they turn black and taste sour
Bleeding out the way they feel?
Do they whisper to themselves things vile
Talking and talking in nonstop chatter
Of lies and curses, of pain and pain?
And do they sharpen the thorns of their tongues
Readying themselves for their red thirst
To be quenched?
When flowers are flowers,
Are they happy being flowers
Rooted to earth and feeling its dirt at their feet?
Are they sour, are they sweet?
Do they whimper softly in moonlit light
And laugh when bathed in gold?
Do they tremble with the wind, even when the wind is silent,
Or do they stand still, waiting to be old,
And broken, and all alone?
Do they need other flowers?
Do they need themselves?
Do they need anything at all, except the powers
Of the sun and of the moon,
And of the air around?
Do they need to be held, thorn and stem, petals all?
Do they need invisible and visible arms to surround?
Do they need to live
When they’ve been dead
For so very long,
Or do they need to die
When they finally live?
Do flowers need me to need them,
To cry out the rain and give them water so they may drink,
And to smile on them, give them light
So they may think?
Why do flowers die?