I live by harvesting light.
I am warm—golden.
As each day passes
I see others wither away
yet, I will prevail
and grow to spread my seeds
to the earth around me.

I will reach upward
and meet the sun.

People pass by
and admire my golden crown.
Some kneel downward
to inhale my rich fragrance.

As my life hits its peak,
I begin to ponder what’s next.

I know one day I will wither too,
and transform into a puffy cloud
soon to be carried with the wind
cascading across earth’s landscape.
Or maybe,
I will be plucked—
each petal a love me, love me not.
Or maybe,
I will be squeezed tightly
into the confines of a cold vase.
No longer will my roots spread.
No longer will I harvest the light.
Humans long to possess what is beautiful
rather than let it live.

Either way
I will depart
and leave my roots behind.