Through the fields you walk,
cutting the delicate stalk
with your shears, shining-bladed,
the blooms fresh or faded,
carrying against your breast
color, form, and scent.
And who can fathom your intent,
leaving the living rest
to grow, bend, wave, and smile
for a little while, a little while,
as you silently bear away
the flowers you gather for that single day?
And who will miss them from that crowded field?
Only the roots, the plants, that had to yield.