The Flowers

What is it the flowers pretend, in the quiet moments?
A language of their own, where petals, like whispers, alight spirit leaves spinning beyond the cages of our time. Their dialect stirs unbroken, O’absence, they call out, searching the scents of fall that carries the sweetest air.

And our spirits lie down, beside the soft earth, even in anguish their eyes drip silently, to shine.

• Rainer Maria Rilke