Who Has Been Picking the Flowers?
Someone’s been picking the flowers
which only just hours ago
above this nearly vacant soil towered
and happened to happily blow!
Where are they now I must wonder;
what quaint maiden fair has received
a bouquet of elegant flora
these roots may no longer retrieve?
Or have they been placed by brethren en masse
aimed at assuaging a widow who grieves?
Have they been scattered in cellars
or placed upon fridges and stoves?
Were they sweet brunch for the dwellers
that creep through the day from the groves?
Were all their thorns and stems set free
yielding petals to press in some book
or pinned to a prom dress carefully
to compliment a certain look?
Flowers keep growing on bowers
at banquets, bazaars, in Tangiere!
Someone’s been counting the mounting hours,
just waiting for them to appear;
someone’s been hording rewarding flowers
for thousands and thousands of years!
I think I’ll take the care to feel
ensuring I spare every root
as I reach down adjacent my heel
to pick the last one from the soot.
I’ll plant her up high on that mountain,
to call out to all of her friends
dancing on breeze-beaten fountains
and singing 'round beautiful bends
reminding them why they left their homes,
to help others make their amends,
as kin to chocolates and heart-gushing poems
that sweetly must blossom to lend...
Yes, flowers are poems the earth has written,
that dazzle us as they are penned
and just when we are wholly smitten
like poems themselves... they softly end.
