Grey ashes of dead blossoms used to lie
Upon the paper waiting for discardment.
They died for my pleasure it seemed...
Every petal fading and succumbing with the wilt
That bleaches the vibrance that cannot live long.
Now into the garden I go that we all eventually know-
Going past the gaudy full blooms. Becoming happy and slightly
Dusty so as to inhale deeply I blow past ashes to the winds.
Then suddenly my pockets are raining seeds.