Let us ask you, Mother, these chosen questions,

Most thought over, most mulled, most complex.

For we are yours, even if we are our own fathers,

And only you can banish the fears

that bother, that torment, that vex

Your youngest children, yet the oldest race.

We ask you this:

Through a field of lilies and roses

a gentle wind may blow.

But do the flowers begrudge every leaf

that they lose to the unseen current?

If the sun that shines upon their colors

Is blotted by some flying animal,

do the flowers blame the shadow, or the one casting it,

For their stolen nourishment?

A bee may help them on their quest

To prolificate and spread their seed.

Do they abhor it for taking in return

A piece of life from their blossom?

The water that falls from the skies

It makes them grow tall and green.

Do the plants tremble in the knowledge

Of their dependence on it?

Their roots draw minerals from the earth

To feed the fruit of their branches.

But are they scared that the time will come

For the collection of the debt?

It’s natural to wilt and wither,

Yet the foliage struggles to survive.

Is the halm afraid of the changing seasons,

Of the rotation of the earth year-round?

Flowers grow together in a meadow,

Share a common bond to earth.

Do these neighbors envy one another,

Are they jealous of each other’s bloom?

Silky, green, inviting petals,

Emeralds that frame the scarlet crown.

Are the flowers intentionally obscuring

The maliciously sharpened, wicked barbs?

Answer, Mother, and set at ease

Our wandering, paranoid minds.

Long we have quarreled, forgotten the peace,

That your poignant bosom provided.

Show us that even your most virtuous seeds

Are not immune to the fate that the gods have decided.

That there is a shadow of your love that is left

Even in us, the most sturdy of weeds.