What a noble thing it is,
to leave a blossoming flower to bloom—
maybe plucking a leaf or two
to give growing petals precious room.

As you stroll past the blooms each day,
you encourage their budding hues.
Their fragrance greets you,
hugging you in their delicate perfume.

Soon a familiar chill meets you;
and a familiar grief settles within you.
As the blossoms wilt,
your steps grow slower,
hoping to cling to just a moment of color.

Soon to be surrounded
by Death and Decay,
even if only for a while—
Pondering an earthly truth,
as true as the birds sing:
Nobody gets to keep
a beautiful thing.