You are humble while watching the sun set, bowing your crown

as you gently give what is not yours to hold back.

White petals fading softly over to hues of brown,

pitiful bloom wears a splendor that is often disregarded.

Your silent mourning is not heard

and alone you feel life's drain,

natures gravity pulling

it back into the soil of your birth.

The instinctive winds tug on whatever

remaining strength is left

and you begin counting down the evenings

that pass by so slowly, questioning just how many

sun rises you will see again.

I always feel badly on the weekend that my husband chooses to prune back all the plants growing in our yard. I peer from the kitchen window and see the big black bags begin to fill up with the discarded remains. Dead branches and leaves mix with colorful flowers that still have a day or two left in them. If I had only arrived before him, I could have salvaged the last bouquet of the season, but I never do. He hauls it all away and in his wake the yard looks so barren and sparse.