The Choice of a Florist

Not all plants raise
Against the battered season's plea,
Only one the victor of the two,
Winter purchased fortune's fee.

The fall, the giver of malaise,
To each flower sworn neglect,
Yet to see, to know
The cruel sliver of subtraction's defect.

To each flower worn a root,
So Nature would have it slow.
Observation would detect
A field of lilies, hidden low.

Attached, amended, to follower's suit,
Each source of life living through the one,
Does the florist sever ties?
Resign to ruthless sun?

The kiss of petals will outlast
The dead's desire not to go,
If a harvest blooms and dies,
Dare I bid a lily grow?