Flowers of the Mind

A poem. It goes on and on. It has pretty much nothing to do with the title. Or does it?

As the man stumbles down
The winding avenue he sees
The future of the bricks
Enclosing him.

He sees the beauty leaping forth
Spreading, growing,
It's scent intoxicating,
It's colors entrancing.

But the people do not look
At the color-splashed stone
Their briefcases
Weep for the roses.

The man wonders what it is
In humans that makes them,
In their intelligence,
Forget the finer details.

The amazing buds springing through,
They're free to make, have, see
And so they are forgotten.

The End

~C