A flower.
Opening up,
Seeing the sunlight.
For the first time.

Though it will not see the next spring,
It does its job,
And it does it well.

It's petals are frail,
But beautiful.
It can be broken,
But it's strong.

And as it's life nears the end,
It will slowly,
Gently,
Gracefully,
Crumble.
Until it is no more.

Next spring, another flower will repeat the process.
Like a horse,
Running in circles.

Year after year,
Month after month.
Retrieving sunlight,
Letting out beauty,
Wilting,
And crumbling to the ground.

A flower.
Opening up,
Seeing the sunlight.
For the first time.