A poem by Loretta Strharsky
Reflections on what?
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.
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