When a Flower Dies, the Sun She Cries.

(re-write)

07/17/07

Tell me little flower,

what ailed you so,

what faded you out,

and caused your petals,

to flutter so prematurely away from you?

---

Was it the rain:

too hard and brutally cold,

it always made you shiver so.

Was it the sun,

so hot in it's vanity that you felt

you might suffocate in your own skin?

Did the laughing wind

tease you, make you feel

too garishly pigmented

to face this world another day

without love's helping hand?

Was the earth just to hard?

Too soft, too in need of a good tilling,

For your liking little one?

---

What happened dear flower,

you were so beautiful.

Maybe it was the other flowers in the garden,

who scared by your fleeting feelings,

Left you to be befriended

by no one but the weeds,

who in turn only wished

to claim your life, your beauty

as their own.

Will we ever know

---

what happened that day?

The day that you refused

to let your roots drink in life,

turned your back on the sun,

cursing her for her brilliance,

and let yourself wilt away.

Flower, could you ever know

how hard the sun she cried,

when she heard that you were gone?

Do you even care to know how hard it is

to console the sun when she lets herself shatter?

I know you cherished her warm embrace,

as it flowed over your petals lovingly,

allowing you a rare glimpse of the happiness

you were always yearning for.

She gave you life, painted such color upon

your rosy cheeks and set that smile in your eyes,

yet, it was never enough for you.

---

And I know that all flowers,

they have their seasons,

but it was barely summer,

the perfect time to bloom.