Blooms:

Some bend towards day’s sunny rays,

Others mourn what manquellers have torn,

A few seem to ever stare at an awe that appears bare,

Lots look straight up, wistfully wishing for a cloud’s pour in their cup,

Many try for a a practical stance—one ideal for a pollinator’s dance,

Most opt to display fully, even if it tempts youths to pully,

Rare ones will open at night because their beauty is tinted by dark over light,

None will ever move in for a kiss, though the ones they give are bliss,

Scarce are those within sepals hid, unable to lift potential’s lid,

All hope to carry a purpose of life, a joy that is resplendent as rife. : )