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Dying and Flowers

A poem by Loretta Strharsky

woman sitting among the daisies
Wix photo

Reflections on what?

Dying perhaps.

Flowers die, picked or not. They were once not picked.

Stealing sunrays in the morning.

Entertaining ladybugs in the afternoon.

Some not picked

Wilt in the garden,

No longer hospitable for a bee.

Others picked.

The center of attention at the dinner table.

For a day, three, four perhaps.

Does it matter?

The sun is not needed. The ladybugs find new residence.

What matters is that we smile this day

Because of something beautiful and not forgotten.

What matters is that we linger,

Not ready to let go of those flowers.

Do we let them remain?

Until the petals fall and the stems weaken,

Bending to touch the table.

What matters in the dying

Must be the memories

Before the petals fall. Before the stems bow.

Must be the memories.

Our days remain full even as we watch the petals.

We ought linger over flowers more often


Surely about the memories



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