The secret life of flowers:
gift-wrapped in evening light,
the magic hour bewitching them,
then softly sealed beneath silent stars,
they lead so many secret lives.
What do they do in their quiet moments?
Do they take on human faces?
Carry on affairs, like you and me,
furnished out of dust and love?
Do they carry credit cards, own cars
that ferry their colors from place to place?
Do they have credibility? Do we believe
in their wisdom, their powers of thought?
Why do we believe them when they tell us
— carpe diem — to seize the moment?
What if we told them to enjoy themselves,
to make the most of each day,
to fold themselves into floral bouquets.
“Gather ye humans,” we might say,
“for time she is a flying,
and those poor humans you please today,
tomorrow will be dying.”