The Beauty of Dying Flowers

Do, at night, flowers dream of their death? The thought, admittedly is a poetic one, but I find that absurdity, is often a step ahead of knowledge. I, being less self-absorbed than the frailest weed, never dream of death, for death dreams of me, it crawls into bed with me, and enters my morning coffee as a memory of what will come. Every part of a flower is a construct of one dream upon another, it is a meditation by rote, a chant on rails of light. Only night can slow that processional unfoldment. When the bloom wilts, look please with care. See the beauty of dying flowers, how they dream themselves out of this world with their closeted death-songs see how they impregnate water and soil. with that last surrendering of their looking-glass souls.