I have a couple of friends that don’t like getting fresh flowers. I have recently fallen in love with it. Once, a very close friend of mine sat across from me ranting about killing flowers by cutting them. This month as I watched the roses in the garden wither I thought about that conversation and wrote a poem.
Do you know what happens to flowers?
They die pretty little deaths
They brown they wither they fade and they seed
And you who refused to pick them
You who saw a brutality to them being in a vase
Who thought it was exploitation
Never spent enough time in a garden to know
Flowers die after they grow
They die on the bush
They die in the ground
With no one there to witness them.
What were you afraid of that you couldn’t bring their beautiful death into your home?
