A Beautiful Flower

The flower is dead now. Killed in the harsh unrelenting cold of a summer it could not withstand or understand.

I remember it in bud, a dramatic innocent bud, so full of hope for life to come. I remember the winter flowering, such a glorious time, to see that bud open and bloom. No one will forget the splendid joy of January. I remember spring bringing the chill of anger.

If the flower had been of silk it would have looked as fine, but never lived. The flower will come again, stronger, but never again for the first time.

Cry with me for the passing of a beautiful flower. I will go with her and die the same way for the same reason. I understand cruel life no better than she.