A Florist’s Lament
by Odin Roark

The steward of flower’s bloom
Resides quietly in all of us,
Some with overt action to protect
Others to admire, but pass by.

Not so the florist of love,
Who sees the petals of flowers imploring
Not as a spread of color for consumption,
But as an expression of nature’s willingness,
To share a wonder,
Assuming we should understand,
Appreciate,
And revere.

Sad, it is
That we have forgotten the trials
A simple flower goes through,
Its struggle to survive the pollution we have wrought,
The defilement of nature we have propagated,
The ignoring of its magic to heal our inner selves,
So needed,
So neglected,
So abused,
So ignored by many of us.

How often have we stopped,
Gently touched the supple willingness of its petals,
The strength of its stem,
Wondered at the tenacity of its roots?

Conversely…

How often have we passed by a blossom’s willingness
To share its fragrance,
Its enjoin our archival for remembrance,
Its eager will to remain upright,
Withstanding our inattention to its thirst,
Our overlooking its palette of color change,
From morning opening,
To sunset’s repose.

How gentle the florist
Touches the arrangement,
A bouquet that will leave the gentle hands of preparation,
Perhaps to be placed in an expectation of grandeur,
Only to be ignored by the passersby,
To be shunned by the mind set of ambition,
That laser focus of battle for success,
Moving quickly to the elevator reserved for executive floors,
Leaving behind the enigmatic love
Of nature’s conscience,
Wanting to comfort our inevitable disappointment
Biding its time…
For now.

Perhaps only at funerals
Are the values of these sentinels for defense and comfort
Truly appreciated.
For likely only then
Are we vulnerable enough to appreciate
Nature’s caring grace
That inexplicable aura of love
Only a flower can give.