His gentle hands
place us all
into the warm, moisture
of this world.
Death is our sentinel,
He quietly waters us with age.
Some proudly defiant and fiery,
Others curly, seemingly confused,
One multi-limbed, one sheered,
A few radiant with colors
Only seen by his invisible eyes,
ungrowing buds
placed back into his pocket.
Our allotted space is enough,
But we struggle for more light, entitled.
Diversity brings dispute,
The patterns and colors of our petals
are simply too different,
And our humble beginning
as tiny, equally cherished seeds
is remembered only
when we are claimed and
Indiscriminately
Held to his gentle, awaiting bosom.
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