Some Flowers Never Open

How wise.
How longsuffering
these roots that need only to be nourished.

Time seeds in all sizes,
color,
strength,
courage,
wonder lust.

Yet, how many grow to full bloom?

Perhaps,
few plantings find solace in patience.

Who knows this gradual evolution of consciousness,
save the flower
whose mysterious
enigmatic color and fragrance of simplicity
requires little awareness to be
its essence.

From sprout of survival
to bloom of vivacity,
this willingness to risk
a tenuous mission of trust
for yielding bouquets,
raise colored voices of willingness skyward.

Still…

Some proclaim dominance
over such fragile children of nature,
merely stuffing them in reservoirs of water,
ignoring their tenuous innocence,
yet quick to moan when they wilt,
obviating guiles of fault
like one’s duplicitous romance with life
where the consummate shattering of Nature’s fragrance
is becoming more common.

So goes the history of togetherness.

Seeding.

Maintaining.

Enjoying a sensorial feast like no other,
until void of light...

Narcissism makes its egregious error,
knowing only to continue emulating its fantasy.

Such are the sunless flowers
that never open.