I look at flowers,
with reverence, and marvel.
Proudly showing their wares.
Reaching up to the sky.
As if they are in a race.
They know their time is short-lived.
A few days of oohs and aahs,
then their heads will wilt,
they will dry out,
and fall to the ground.
To be assimilated.
Not to be seen again, ever.
I suppose this is true for me also.