Do flowers worry when they bloom or die?
Do they yearn and wish for brighter petals?
With children plucked, do grown blooms wail and cry?
With time to think, what ideas do they meddle?
Can roses be romantic like you or I?
Is their color like a finger’s mood ring?
Can they yearn for seasons not yet gone by?
Do they find ecstasy in the cool wind?
It’s people, who hurt and love and believe,
And it’s people who change and learn to fly
And it’s flowers that people love to pluck.
Like dirt and wind, it’s emotion we need,
To feed our queries of how, where, when, why,
And longing ours to bear alone, such luck…
CLR
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