don’t need to be
watered. They’ll never
grow. They’re not

soft to the touch. Their
petals don’t fall off. They
don’t need sunlight. They stay
exactly where you

put them. The seasons
have no meaning. They’ll
never bend under the
snow. They’ll never dance in

the wind. They’ll never open up
come the spring. They won’t
perfume my garden, or provide
nectar to the bee. They’re not

pretty to look at. Their time is
spent indoors. They’ll never feel
the gentle rain bead upon
their tender veins. They have

no roots, nor will they grow
offshoots. They’ll never die. But
they never had any life to die
for.