Mother’s Day Flowers
They grow in pots
or wildly not, frosting the sides
of buildings, flung
across the roadside wastes
draping a softening cloth over
what would otherwise be a corpse.
from seed that falls from the dead
they’ll never know
the way they will their bee lovers
the kiss of the rain and stroking
of the wind, spreading under
the color of their beauty
infinite and abstract and complete.
So why are they gathered
by men who need money
killed by a cold knife
cut and tied into bunches
to make a gift of fading beauty homaging
an act they can’t conceive or
replicate, stiffly filed and vased.
Is it because they say so much,
or because they cannot
speak at all?
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Image: White and Blue Fanflower, © joy ann jones 2012