The November Garden
An awkward, ugly time for flowers.
Flowers that are now only bird food.
Flowers that stand bravely in their own ruins.
Flowers that still want to bloom,
But fray around their petals
And droop towards the ground
Losing their fight with gravity.
Should I cut them off at the knees
And let them rest, or die?
Should I aid their struggle and defy nature?
Or let nature run its cold course
To preserve the species at the cost of the individual.
What I must do is not watch,
It hurts too much.
Wait for the frost, pray for the snow to coat them,
For the cosmetic to dupe the eyes.
For the illusion of beauty and youth.
Until June when dewy youth and fresh beauty
Burst from the residue of past youth and past beauty.
And the sun feels golden warm again.
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