23 Blossom-tide

I.

Flowers are beautiful in summer and spring.
They color our world—returning, never fully extinguished

In our time here. They speak for Nature’s divinity
And add delicacy to Her fold—fragile, gently swaying

Eternally now and everywhere, a rainbow of delight.
They cannot speak or plan or toil,

Weave, spin, or till their soil,
Pay taxes, work, or even last through winter.

They can’t complain or speak aloud
And tell us what they wish to unfold.

Flowers have spring and summer only
And they must make the most of time, blossoming

With splashes of every color,
As a central jewel the bloom

Showing God’s passion, Nature’s glory, and human longing.
Everything is shining, say our flowers.

Dewy, fine, and tender.
And you look nice too, a dilletante says.

A liter of water, a handful of dusty lusty powder.
Flowers live a life of nurturance.

II.

But then we have the weeds.
The forgotten flowers. The ones

No one stops to look at.
No blooms? Why on earth would I care to stop there? they ask,

Nodding toward a full-blooming stalk of
“I am a red, red rose” blossoms.

But the weeds have merit, too.
They are just as wondrous, sent from above—
They too were microscopic seedlings—
But nobody pays them notice.

To the ancients, anything green had value.
Yet now only the beautiful thrive—only the beautiful.

There’s more to it, however.
Some weeds masquerade as flowers—

Shooting out tufts of snowy foliage,
Or hiding under stones and in forgotten alleyways,

They wish they were loved like the flowers.
But nothing is won. No one ever admires them.

Yet, in the end, even the grandest flowers
Will join the weeds underground in a returning to beginnings.