Flowers bloom

unconsciously

giving gift

to earth,

silent beauty.

They sing

but their

notes

are too

long

and sweet

and so,

they never

find

the right

ears.

Their silence

is the most

striking

sound one

is allowed

to hear.

But sometimes,

even this

sound

is far

too soft.

Under foot

it cripples,

and their

notes

find the

wrong tones.

The right ones

bury

beneath caps

of  our ash

as silent

but far

rougher

than their

tunes.

Still,

the flowers

bloom,

but in

their wilted

forms

a new

silence

is born.

Their cries,

shed

the earth

of life.

Then their

song

falls away,

silence

broken,

the flowers

bloom

within

the fire

of our

ashes.

They peel

away,

each layer

of blossom

melting

like skin.

The silence

of gone

is empty and cold

like the

whispers

of the wind.