The most beautiful flowers are those that haven’t grown yet. 

Before the sun trickles down from the heavens. 

Flows over and through a plump, green bulb

Before the flower bursts forth in an explosion of pollen, scatter scents

Turning upward, glistening pedals fanned toward the blue, so colorful

Before this pristine organism, this perfect blossom and vehicle for beauty comes to fruition

It was more beautiful before. 

After it crinkles and wilts. It’s eaten, stomped or starved of sun or water or warmth. 

Even in its most perfect state it disappoints. 

Because everything has to die

Unless it was never alive to begin with.