A flower has no family. Until
September, she has neighbors; then they pass
and leave her, lonely, to the frost. She spills
her petals, gold donations to the grass.
A flower has no legacy. The fast
routine of seasons flees and leaves no room
to write biographies, no reel to cache
a memory, no stone to mark her tomb.
A flower has no heritage, no womb;
the seeds she raises stray and never need
her aid. She can’t store savings in her blooms;
she leans and lounges on the breezes, weak,
But stunning sunlight feeds her with his beams;
his distant flames reflect on every leaf.