a flower in the Tuileries

oh sweet flower, young
yet old, who flutters in
the ripening francilien air.
what have you seen, and what
do you know? whose roots
reach delicately deep into
the superficial soil that
once intricately housed the
kings of old. you whose
beginnings commence under
a greyish, misty hue — have
you also cried to the horrors
you’ve seen, and love you’ve
felt? you, who dance under
a warm, setting sun in the
blossoming of spring, radiating
outward to touch me.
do you feel the regard of
others, or perhaps they are too
bewildered by the sights that
they do not see you. yes, you,
you; an experience and entity
comprehending the complexities
of our known existence: its
fragility and ephemerality.
when the rains come, to
nourish your soul, when your
delicate fibers
float softly to the Earth,
wetting it and seeping through,
reaching beyond — can you
hear your ancestors? for
they speak to you.
the promise of the sun will
come to you, dry your
tears and warm your
tune. for soon, you will
be dancing anew.
the birdsong will sing you
a tune. joyous you will be.
and finally, when your experience
will be complete, the damp air
and its chilled temporality
will soften your intricate spirit.
you may wrinkle, and likely fall.
your composition shattered,
resting upon the bed in which you
lie: expired.
you will live on, a dear memory
to me. holding you tightly, and
the difference you made.
thinking of you, i look to the
sun; but he is gone, warming
some other tune.
its return is imminent,
and soon it will be shining
over me, and over you.