A flower, pink, delicate, fragrant
Sit with your eyes closed and breathe
Atomic vibrations perfume the air
Listen to the birds and the bees
When you looked at me with bedroom eyes
I felt like I was underwater
My lips parted, involuntarily
The blanket slid off my shoulder
The sun has changed, its solstice passed
Some days it forgets us entirely
It appears la bas, across the sky
An arc with a distant agenda
Open your eyes, the flower is gone
I’ve aged- I’m eighty years old
Where did you go? How did it end?
Did you skid, did you die in the road?
If a flower dies, and no one sees
Did the flower really die?
Do others drop petals in sacrifice
Of the flowers who came before them?
When I die, will you go too…
Or do memories live on?
Independent of living souls
Pulsing spheres of their own…
A thousand years later, a child pops
A shimmering balloon
And we spill out, tumbled and laughing
Reflections of a green lagoon
The flower stands tall, it does not worry
About who will remember its scent
It lives and it dies, a sensory gift
And then bows out, graceful and spent
(More writing at… http://hubpages.com/profile/sarahtrudeau)