Why do they kill the flowers
whose dreams float above delicate, skin petals
Turning the scorching sun
into a sweet nectar blossom?
To satisfy the darkened green blades?
Maybe it’s in fear, that what is different
will disturb the ambiance of repetition
distracting from expectation
or perhaps, the influence of what is beautiful
What if morning glories painted themselves green
blending. Careful not to disrupt.
Hiding in shadows. Careful not to distract.
But I guess even then, they would be sliced into mulch
But once, I saw a field.
Where the flowers and grasses
Like a dancing Monet.
Before they came to rototill them too…