Glamorous choice gardens
Splashes valiantly, dances with color
Making noise sounding spring.
Rich budding stems give the signal
Saying “its time, unfurl your coats”.
Long awaited blooms feverishly
Showcase their splendor in sync.
Myriads attend nature’s symphony;
Enamored by the harmony of sound,
Appreciating at length it’s classical varieties.
Those who faithfully tended the garden, all chose the rose, but none chose the root.
Beauty grows in an upward fashion
Stretching green for the open sky.
Toward the expectant eye of the beholder. But where is the beauty of the root?
At the time of life, the glory of the flower is manifested, and we all embrace it’s flame. But roots keep silent, grow whitherward soil lacking jealousy, flare, or shame.
And yet, at another time of life beauty fails the green. Choice blooms take their last breath. Petals wilt, all stems crumble, life flees from its chest.
Peacefulness, silence blankets the garden proper. Blooms lay withered, faded into Earth. The flower has fallen, no soul attends the doom.
Faint buzz of wings simmer at a distance. Winter breezes hastily awaken, so eager to bring a chill. Humbled roots seek warmth, stay hidden, lying still. Waiting for an opportune time for its music.
So is the bloom the issue of beauty from the root? Or is the root the beauty of the bloom?