Crushed flowers seem immutable-- that is,
they crumble imperceptibly, and whisper
such encouragement to their withered ends
that dryness becomes a state of being.

If bleeding on a sidewalk, they will resign
themselves to the unknowns of decomposition,
much as we stumble to the uncertainties
of the grave.  Yet here is the marvel: as life-

juice leaves their veins, and color deserts
their cheeks, they sacrifice their grip on that ground
with which they had so forcefully been mated.
Bound not to Earth, they reach to new

heights in death, having become weightless,
and gained freedom from the loss of beauty.

02/10/2004

Author's Note: Trying to circumvent a lack of inspiration. *Sigh*.

Posted on 02/10/2004
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