Spent Flowers

Spent Flowers

We do not love spent flowers;

The ones crinkled at the edges,

The drooping, dropping petals,

The browning, wrinkled blooms

That dry and die on the stem,

Wizened mummies of their

Former pristine freshness.

We prize the swelling buds,

Perfect packages of potential,

Baby-faced blossom bundles

Unfurled and untouched by trial.

We treasure the newly opened rose,

Half-blown on a midsummer morn,

Its fragrance chaste, restrained,

Pent-up in anticipated glee

Awaiting noon and full sun.

We admire the full-blown lily-

“They’re such good value;

They last so well!”-

They might as well be silk

Until the pollen stains the altar cloth

And meaty petals tumble,

Cascade in sudden death-throes

To lie like bright compost

Waiting the broom and bin.