Unfurling, without haste,
In a verdant garden—
Petal by petal, leaf by leaf,
Flowers extend their vermillion tongues,
Lifting aureate filaments to the sunlight,
As their stamens rise
in amber prayers in the spring air.
A flower's thirst is not merely for water,
But for light, and when petals open,
And unfold their silken banners,
It becomes a annunciation—
A phosphorescent incarnation,
A vibrant whisper of becoming.
Yet each flowering phoenix fire,
Must inevitably surrender to gravity's embrace.
Petals fall as fulfilled prayers
retiring to the earthen womb that nurtures all of us.
There silent whispers
Metamorphose into living scriptures.
Rot is not ruin, but reformation:
Disintegration is a deep seasonal meditation.
And thus we enter a sacred spiral,
ever unfolding, ever becoming.
Noel:
(with a lopsided grin after hearing a poem) Holy compost, Batman! This poem is a botanical downer! It feels like an eulogy with a floral crown! Is anyone getting funeral vibes?
Tara:
(playfully nudging Noel) Yeah, I was hoping for a beer party, not some poetic compost heap.
Opapan:
(with mirth) Ah, but my restless friends, you're missing the cosmic joke! Don't you see? Even compost dances—its rhythm pulses through all that lives. We are literally feasting on a billion beautiful endings every moment. Let's dance for endings as joyously as we do for beginnings.
Gwen:
(quiet, contemplative) Without inner silence, all celebrations are hollow. Birth, marriage, and death—are mere footprints in maya's intricate snare. Can't you sense something unchanging in each garden?
