Bouquet of Flowers

You never took the time to look beneath
the dirt: the darkness where my roots entwine,
disorganized like Pollock’s paint. You climbed
the mountain which you love so well, beneath
the rising rocks I thrive. My colors in
the sun a hint, glinting light on waning
mist: a rainbow after rain. You could have
sat with me amidst this meadow full of
blooms, but bliss—like breezes shift swiftly past,
brushing lightly on your brow. Down you ran
but first, admiration cast its spell, you
took a trimming of my flowers. Now my
fleeting beauty fades, and sits atop a
table, arranged: a gift to your sweetheart.