By Arachne


First we saw the pert buds burst, unfurl.
We watched them dance and flirt, 
twirl their skirts all through the day’s long heat,
swirl and prance, hurl crazy insults 
down the evening street as if 
they owned the world

Then the slightest wilt, heads bowed,
a tired droop, seeking shade, hiding 
from the crowd behind the leaves.

Now they’re old and fading fast, 
ignored, long past a second glance, ready,
almost ready for dead-heading.

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