PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

...and they do not pick me.

So I blossom in Spring.

My beauty resilient through summer.

As nature takes its course,

my petals brown from autumn cold

and whither away on winter days.

The others did not determine my fate.

My stem was not cut by their hands.

My countenance did not drop within

a dying bouquet of fern and baby's breath,

or trapped in a vase, suffocating on

stale water.

They did not pick me.

They did not choose my destiny.

They can not control me.

and as my petals fall in winter,

the dried velvet nourishes the earth

and I become anew.

My leaves become fuller,

my dew becomes fresher,

and next to mine,

a new bud grows.