When flowers die,
They die slowly—
Edge by edge
The petals curl,
Still, silently,
Without complaint.

Unlike us,
Cut flowers
Should be let go
Before the first
Tinge of death,
While they are
Yet radiant in
Deepest color.

We, however,
Must stay alive
Long , long past
Our first bloom—
Till we have
Crinkled and
Brutishly browned
With excess time.

Yet we have what
Flowers have not:
Our love for them
Dies with them.
Our love for our
Beloved blooms,
More resplendent
With long years—
Lasting past the fading,
Lasting past even death.