A flower is a piece of passion
It grows, but not as a matter of fact.
We obey its fragrance
Once touched by it.
Its growth, earthy and otherworldly,
Is a gift that exists in the abstract.
In bunches they mathematically multiply
More than the petals’ yield of the first,
As their colors rely on varied sunshine
To wake us to their morning’s
Unpredictable bursts.
A flower is the peace of God’s passion
A flower heals hurt and swallows rain
Their purpose seems one of kindness
One that flutters eyelids to lift our pain.
With a flower, an abstract thing
One should never waste,
Yes, this passion, for the peace of flowers
Can run throughout our veins.
Empathy is Poetry 