My outward appearance,

my withering state,

may suggest there’s naught

to cultivate.


May have lost me

all your wonder.

May prompt you

to plow me under. 


My bloom is spent,

waning to the extent

that all you see is decay.

A flower knows her worth,

will return to the earth,

unfettered, cast away.


You dismiss me

because you cannot delight

 in the cycle of my life,

in my being finite.


Lose you this misconception,

that gives the perception

that I fix upon you like the sun.

In the fullness of flower

it was always in my power

to be contrary

to be solitary;

not undone.


In the space that remains

it will be worth your pains

to do the work required for release.


You should know:

it takes a lifetime to grow,

to become seasoned,

to become tolerant,

to find peace.