A Momentary Flower
You stop early in the morning to take in the flowers.
Rose of Sharon, a piece of home in your foreign garden,
flourishing against the advice of the local horticulturist.
You can hear hummingbirds come for breakfast.
A bush, now a decade old, covered in blooms,
delicate. Perfection for a few days.
The ground below is scattered with flowers fallen.
Surprisingly, they linger in beauty, even dead,
Splashes of color in the grass.
And this flower. Still attached and opening
to the morning sun? Does it care
why it still lives? No, it does not.
It breathes its beauty. Lives gloriously,
without caution or care as you gaze,
praying your morning prayer of gratitude,
alive this morning. And for the moment. Enough.
About this poem
I am of an age where many of my friends have already passed. I have missed death a time or few myself as he passed through the neighborhood. I no longer wonder why I am still here. I am confident that there is a reason, but I do not need to know it. I am content to follow the season, however long it lasts. Where ever it takes me.
And too, a poem about the flowers in my back yard, including this one, taken this morning.
Poetry is never about one thing.