You shamble through the garden, cast an eye
towards me, and I wonder, have I passed
from vision to perception, or, at last,
from raw perception into memory?
You mull upon me there. You may decide
to contemplate my loveliness, before
my petals brown, and passing bees ignore
my faded perfume's final desperate bid.
Then magnify me. Worship me. Enthrone
me as a goddess in your deathless verse.
Draw parallels and warnings. Intersperse
my colours with the greys you gorge upon.
And some may see, behind your eulogising,
a flower lost in dull philosophising.