They arrive
In a burst of
Rapturous life
How they
Command attention
Like an offhand
Remark
And warm
In their
Fiery countenance
As the ember of
A memory often is
More glorious
For being
Momentary
And yet mild
Like kindness
What do they
Know of anticipation
Of love, serenity
Surrender or wonder
Of those who would
who take pleasure
In their presence
And are overcome
With unspeakable
Melancholy
At the cruel
Fragile brevity
Of beauty?
Positively Keatsian. I have never actually attempted a flower poem, not sure I'm up to the task.
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