By Leila Macdonald
Why do your leaves uncurl invisibly?
Is it mere pride?
When I behold your petals,
They lie immovably against your breast;
Or opened wide,
Your shield thrown wide.
But none may watch the unveiling of your pride.
Why do you die so soon, so certainly?
Death is disgrace;
You should stay dying half your life;
Your drooping face
Gives you when dying your divinest face.
But death's pale colours are your sole disgrace.