Mighty, seeking the sun;
symbol of all that is beautiful.
Many leaved bud of life.
The Flower.
It seeks the nothing,
space between the earth and sky,
Bursting out from the arms of its maker.
How possessive is the flower of its bud?
Or is it just shy of its center,
the only naked part of its existence;
unadorned by color or beauty,
oft taking on the color of the earth it birthed from.
Petals layer over it,
Leaves of the bud.
Unfolding only when ready,
to live as a whole.
How strange,
Center is the last to be revealed;
just before the flower is ready to bloom.
And that too, oft in vain,
For eyes seek the beauty of the peripheral petals.
Or Maybe focus isn't about the center anymore.
An entire lifetime in a few sunrises,
For is the measure of a life well lived, time?
Nature doesn't overstay its welcome.
Flower doesn't want to live forever.
It's existence is solely for rebirth.
While leaving a sweet taste in those that spread its seed.
And so, with the fervor of growth,
It wilts.
At the end,
The first to be shed are the petals,
the pistil remains.
And soon,
Wilting flowers,
too heavy for the stalk;
serve as fodder for the same seed that let them bloom.
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