Nature opens according to schedule.
We think it wild, I laugh just to think it wild,
Doing as it will, willy nilly to the world
Of rules to survive, that we live in. 

But the blossoms,
The blossoms open and close
On date, and seasons change
Like clockwork, the haphazard field 
of the wildflowers
Knows itself with precision.

It is not the wild we envy, after all.

We want the repeat button 
The knowledge of the rains
To mark our years
To remember our tears
The snow will melt in a few months
And look longingly toward
And away from fears
We will mark our pain to cherry blossoms popping 
And Iris’ death.
They die so weak.

We can’t wish stability
our souls sold to the
Randomness we have 
Been gifted, we can’t
Trust health and its tiresome
The stealthy wish for love and wealth.

But still, we say, we blossom? We say we blossom.

It’s a way we sum up our growth.
Find nature in our brutish vain.
But we don’t. We don’t grow in that way.
We merely stumble and struggle

While the flowers open and close 
a Fibonacci sequence
a geometry of patterns
a time-lapse video
on the National Geographic Channel
But of us 
standing and kneeling
Then laughing
And crying trees growing and dying
Gasping at the continuity
That only a flower or a leaf 
Truly knows.

– Arianna