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63. On a dahlia © 1 February 2018 |
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The dahlia opens slow before it makes a show, bright red, and then the full-faced head bends down towards its bed and bows; as if to say the hours of fleeting life somehow are short. Its beauty comes to naught as petals fall uncaught and die. Some say each flower shall leave a cob, a pod of seeds, a cone, from which will spring the bones of new flowers, new fruit, grown; and yet, lest ever I forget, my death shall not beget new grain to grow in hope, in pain, in love, in loss, in gain, in joy. |