Loners don't cause the flower's tremble;
it's the found who pick them
for the windowed home of temporary light.
Polished suitors hit the shops;
purchase them with plastic cash.
Sheathed or vased, the flowers wilt
where they're placed by lovers
in a rush to sheets and covers.
They die at the table's center,
the counter's rim,
the bedside stand.
Dimly lit tombs of finished symphonies
have claimed petal and stem, color
and scent, pollen and dew
to honor the composers who,
deaf when they died,
were still able to see and smell
the rose or wildflower on the grave.
Loners don't cause the flower's tremble,
nor unknown poets
and unrealized compositions
found dead on less than grand pianos.