I see the weather in your petals’ hue. The sun can’t wash its dusky stains of rain. You twist towards the light to claim your view of life as if your wilt may not remain. You’ll seek tomorrow for the season’s end. You hope today for winds you can withstand. Your leaves will only tire as they bend. What seeds do you expect to grace the land? It saddens me to see how you persist. Those tired eyes are frayed, yet still aflame. What love compels you onward through the mist? Whatever you reply, I too, proclaim. Your choice to live will pollinate the field. The field, in turn, will have you grown and healed.