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

          grew wild.

               Like a dancing Monet.

Before they came to rototill them too…