The withered flower.

Its violet purpureal petals It’s the brightest showered in moonlight Swift traces of white merge into the color full flower Making little sweet cakes within it

Suddenly a frond fails The flower is sad and it is crying But its tears are its own self As the lovely caring blossom lives to yearn

And she cries, and she cries Since all the colors that there are now Violet, Purple, Green, the white creamy light of the moon And the invisible dark void which the flower lives on

But it isn’t because of its loneliness It is simply the passage of time The flower changes and changes Until no longer it is one

And the bees, the bees no longer fly around. This is the last dance.