Poor flowers—
coaxed
by the sun's
warm fingers,
harassed
by the quick rhythms
of a few passing
insects,
cajoled
by the tickle
of sticky
moist earth—into
opening up—
emptying-
out
their inner-
most
spaces
completely, and
exposing
every last
particle and filament
of their
frail and shy
beauty—to a wide world
so far
beyond
their comprehension;
only
to wind up—
abruptly
shriveled by wind,
wheedled by rain,
drained dry
and left
in the
retreating light,
to wilt
and to die
shortly thereafter.
And yet—they do not
die
how you'd
think
that they
might—not
of fright,
certainly not
of—embarrassment.
