The gardens are awash with arrogant buds
opened fully in the springtime of their days.
They soon take themselves for ripe and ready,
calling their number the rightful heirs of sunlight
and the very aristocracy of all vegetation.
They tout their pollen as finer than gold
given only to dust their own deserving kind.
Such sprouts see more dimly than they suppose,
forgetful of foliage which gave them shelter
as they timidly cracked open their seed shells.
Thankless, they crowd the elder greenery
in the overreach of their selfish leaves,
for they are flowers with beauty to uphold
and entitled to choke the unadorned as weeds.
With saturated colors and seductive perfumes
they say the perennials have had their day
and show no regard for stems that grow weary
or the branches they claim should be pruned.
But the sun sets on all varieties in their turn
someday to cast a pall farther than their reach.
They too will know the dimming of dusk
and the soulsap that thickens into amber.
The relentless rhythm of the seasons uncoils
for them as well, without any remorse.
When their petals shed the last of fragrance
then fall away, turning dry as they must,
will they remember in that bitter withering,
the mowing they wished on the tallest grass?
About the Poem
This poem is a thinly-veiled comment about the fate that befalls all of us as we age. A fate often ignored by the young, who in their conceit are blind to the eventual fall from the grace of youth worship.
This poem is previously unpublished in print. This poem was finished June 3, 2003.