The flower blooms in excruciating color,

while the grass, just a weed,

just as tender,

waits alone,

as boot tramplers 

desperately grasp

and rip shredded

stems for one sweet

scent,

or to fill a lapel,

never minding the bees,

or crushing stalks,

or forgotten hearts,

in order to

exist in the grace of a

perfect flower’s temporary

flair,

while the tender

grass silently worships

bare feet.