Flowers always seem happy.
Their soft, delicate petals caress the air,
as they sway in passive non-resistance to anything.
Yet, I suspect they're less than innocent.
They know about the world; laugh anyway
tickled by their own existence,
aware of their power through beauty,
evoking admiration of their strip tease
dance of love.
Yes, I think flowers connect us to love.
That's why we try to learn, to imitate
not just their colors, their texture,
that ephemeral something in their fragrance,
but the essence of their life's intention:
to love us completely
How happily they wither into dust,
our gentle, loving, little teachers.
(Submitted to Poets United.)