How does a purple-blossomed plant
Thank the light?
Does any part of the flower’s petals, stalk, or leaves–
That have turned richer shades of purples and greens–
Even know that it is gratitude that it perceives
When in the sun’s light it basks and beams?
What if that flower knows and screamed
An infinite shriek
Of thanks, a blue streak,
Would the sound breach the atmosphere
And reach the sun’s ears?
Or does the sun just go on, unaware,
Thinking to itself
No other inkling than itself?
What of the flower’s roots?
Do they know of the sun’s glow,
(What the sun has done in aiding growth),
Whilst in the dark,
Under the soil,
Reaching, stretching for nutrients, it toils?
Maybe it does not see ahead, above,
Nor what in its future it will become.
But give roots credit,
Fair is fair,
They know that something is going on up there
And bleed in thankfulness they can spare.
Of course, this purple flower is just that:
A flower of purple which God begat.
It does its work,
It strives as it should,
And prays it’s ne’er stamped out underfoot.
Still it can’t forget the sun’s huge part:
It has never kept the flower in the dark.
So much it wells her wet with dew
Each time the sun comes back,
Like tears of longing left over from a night so black.
Away the sun chased blight.
The flower may reach its potential, but not without light.
She’s so thankful for the sun’s deeds,
Though speechless the flower may be.