Clinched Flowers

As gently the winds brush their petals, they sway in tenderness cuddling the nudge, pleasure of a moment or two, seizing the day. 

Hitherto, their freshness will fade, reducing to silence at the end. The selfsame swain will then slip by scrubbing the dwindled flowers.

Anthophiles too abase them, shrinking to mere dust. At most, a seller sells potpourri, a miracle whole. 

These flowers moko-ed a memo, beyond the meadow of our soul. Our lives and after-lives meander into diverse lines; little do we know.