The Flowers Bloom
Can you hear the flowers bloom,
their hymns beneath the soil?
Can you sense their quiet breath
within the earth they toil?
They do not rise in clamor,
nor seek the world’s acclaim,
they open in a hush of light
and never speak their name.
Can you hear the flowers pray
in tongues the wind translates?
In petaled psalms of morning dew,
in roots that consecrate?
The old medicine man kneels low,
his shadow long and thin,
and speaks to them in softened tones
that echo deep within.
He does not speak above them,
he listens as they grow,
for wisdom lives in silent things
that only stillness knows.
Respect is not a spoken vow,
nor bound by written creed,
it lives between the trembling roots
and every planted seed.
A covenant beneath our feet,
unseen, yet understood:
we take no more than we are given,
we honor what is good.
Can you hear the flowers bloom?
They would prefer you not.
For sacred things are often kept
within a quiet thought.
They bow their heads in reverence
to sun, to rain, to sky,
each petal raised in wordless prayer,
then laid to rest to die.
Yet death, to them, is no undoing—
no severed, final thread,
it is the turning of a page,
not all that lies ahead.
They bloom in silent devotion,
they wither without plea,
a cycle wrapped in gentleness,
in ancient dignity.
So, listen not with hurried ears,
nor eyes that only see,
but with the part of you that knows
what stillness dares to be.
Can you hear the flowers bloom?
Perhaps you never will,
for they are not meant to be heard…
only felt
when all is still.
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