Was there not a flower found its sun
through simple blossoming? I thought that's how it's done
ignore the driven wooden root, ignore the thorn's intent
instead, invest in feminine receipt
and open petals, welcome summer's heat.

Was there a flower couldn't find the sun
through simple blossoming? Its wooden nail
is buried in the soil; still all its vigor's spent
to cripple stone and guzzle draughts of earth
and bloom: that's what its living meant.

I don't think it thought.
I would bet it didn't bet.
I didn't say it said a word:
it just did what it did
and lived, and died.