Who Listens to Flowers?


They grow like little comets,
blazing through the blackened soil,
singing long-forgotten songs -
songs of death's demise,
of life's bright distillation
lighting the very core of time.

But who has ears to hear?

Who sits among the stalks
listening to the creak of growth,
the crystallization of each new cell,
enraptured,
convinced
that life conquers all?

They stream into our eyes
pouring ambrosial essence,
lean light,
pure and natural passion.

They nurse the soul
of this belaboured age,
singing a silent song -
once heard,
they sweep the sky's wide towers
heaving lakes with ease into the blue,
filling children's eyes with stars,
and breathing joy's pearled kiss
into each welcoming ear.

Who listens to flowers?
Flowers listen to flowers,
as do trees, laughing clouds,
rivers, lakes, and all
the glowing world unseen
within poet's hearts,
within those who simply take the time
to listen.

Consider

Consider the grass,
taste its freshness,
grinding its essence between your teeth.

Consider the flower,
breathe its fragrance,
content in the day's bouquet.

Consider the bee,
its healing hum,
beyond dull city's din.

Consider the bird,
wind on wings,
swinging wide the heavens' arch.

Consider the sky,
swish it round
the test tube of your mind.