She takes photos of flowers in graveyards and no one knows the difference;
they love them no matter.
Flowers never mind where they grow,
be it
a graveyard
a crack in the pavement
a mountain side or a field,
as long as their roots are nourished.
And the sun still shines
and the rain still wets
and wind still blows without pause where
dead people lie.
no fear of life or death;
so the flowers grow and she still
goes and sees that beauty and peace
Abide within.
The lion does not roar just to listen to itself.
Nor the hawk call
Or the squirrel chitter,
The birds twitter
Or the whale sing.
The flower does not grow to gaze into its own
Reflection,
Nor the river flow to greet itself.
The Magnolia trees are
Blooming. The flowers are stirring.
I watch the shades
Of color change on each leaf
As the sun rises.
As the greens brighten so
Quickly in response to the
Slightest touch of light,
As they come to life.
Anticipation trembling from
Root to top in realization there has come
Another
Day to grow.
The squirrels chitter.
The butterflies dance and the
Trees keep company as they do.
They sing in sweet harmony,
“Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Open your eyes and heart.
See. See. See.”
Each petal
Creates the beauty
Of the
Flower.
Out of all the flowers
We see
It is in the dandelion,
Sister of the daisy,
A weed,
We use to set our wishes free.
Everyone
Loves to gaze in awe
Upon
The loveliness
Of a fully blossomed flower.
But I,
I love to gaze
Upon
The tightly gathered bud
And dream
Of secret beauty
Yet
To come.
Morning flower bud
Sleeping silently in night
Petals gently rouse
Chole Into Diamonds 