Does a flower mind dying?
It blooms to bear fruit,
service others,
greedy bees, with their terrifying tongues;
Yellow and black are poison alarms
yet it allows them to drink life’s honey,
attracts them with cherry dipped petals
in the name of its race, kin it will never know
without being uprooted by wind.

What does a flower feel as it wilts?
Tired, perhaps, weary;
drained, and not even the sun can stop it—
unless the sun caused it.
In this green world, there are no friends,
only those you can gain from, and try not to be killed;
Life and death—what does it mean to these little beings?
Do they scream when their life is finally snuffed,
or are they resigned?
Can they tell the difference?

One likes to think blooming makes up for the rest,
that dying is worth it, if only to live
This awakening,
stretching of petals,
new feeling—wind, rain, morning dew, so cool
Eventually, the monotony sets in
The flower realizes this is all it will know,
this spot, this grass, this hill
It spreads its seeds, mourning that it can’t stop
other flowers from feeling this way, and dies
without knowing why it breathed,
gave to bees
And why not one being laments the flower
who died bearing children
it couldn’t name.