I’ve always loved

The crane of green, of spiring atoms
Years in their making: the
Burdened, brittle backs of flowers in my garden.

These are the stems which are nothing but,
letting loose a leaf  here that wonders then
Wilts; slung, there, sullen, at the side.

I’ve always admired

The ribald crags, a matter of mid-life
Crises. Yet, all about its warted middle
A uniform purpose nonetheless rises:

Dewy petals ringing white in halos,
Their fearless figures spread wide upon the air:
Indeed, all the supple self naked to the whim of Nature.

I’ve always enjoyed their grace.

Except, there is one bowing low, shut upon itself
And gray. I wonder how it came to be that way,
Still haloed in its ashen regalness.

Or, for that matter, how many more will
Slump before tomorrow, exchanging their halos
For a bit of rest.

Yes, I’ve always marveled at the uncanniness of flowers.