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Flower Seeds


by Darryl Price


What did you choose? What are your intentions? 
You can always help. Water and a little 
tenderness in your touch. But words matter, 
too. They are felt, not just heard. They are 
ingested, not just listened to, you've got 
to speak with love, not weakness. Honor, never 

cruel self-pity or anger. Everything's 
only trying to reach their potential 
for beauty, truth and the good life. Don't 
ever be an empty space for anyone. 
Flowers are people, they're just flowers 
as people. I like the way they gather. 

They speak in colors. They sing in stalks and 
mostly wrapped in leaves, deeply from roots and 
sometimes baths of rain. They paint in all the 
wild fields around trees and with skies and clouds 
for dipping brushes. Sometimes I must admit 
I fall into their lakes too easily. 

Mostly I enjoy dreaming, unfolding 
with them on a lazy, windy afternoon. 
And you and I both know how they can 
run riot over and through the rolling 
grasses to create a beautiful havoc. 
They have a lot of kinetic energy, 

especially in just the right sun. 
My heart stood still when I saw you standing 
there among the daisies, brushing their petaled 
cheeks with the soft palm of your hand. I
wanted that touch to take my own breath away. 
This poem is that photograph. They said,

put it on a tray,  now drop the tray, let 
it go. I never had the courage. Because 
it still feels so good to see you, flowers 
in your hair, flowers everywhere, celebrating
you. I can feel you near, hear
all their advice, but I choose gardening.   
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