I planted my flowers in a storm without a center.
Everything they needed poured onto them from the wind.
The higher they grow, their roots go deeper,
And the more they feel the pouring sky above the heads.
They asked me when the rain would stop, and I answered,
Telling them they were planted in a storm without an end.
Since then my flowers have gotten quieter,
And I don't really know what they perceive or understand.
The answer was simple, but they seem desperate to comprehend.
What it means to be a flower is beyond me,
And beyond them, I'm beginning to suspect.
They were lost in the storm and looking for themselves.
Growing up and growing old, evolving in place.
Whatever meaning they may have, might blow by them perchance.
Unfortunately, they're all quite mad.