They said the flowers simply grew—
with nothing known, and nothing new.
But flowers listen, soft and low,
to things we’re far too fast to know.
They open with the morning light,
and close again when falls the night.
They lean toward warmth, withdraw from cold,
their movements quiet, slow, and old.
They hear the hum of passing wings,
and tilt to catch the song it brings.
A trembling leaf, a single bite,
can send a message through the night.
Without a voice, they speak in hue.
Without a mind, they know what’s true.
Their silence isn’t empty space—
it’s ancient rhythm, rooted grace.
So next time that you pass them by,
don’t rush, don’t speak, don’t wonder why.
Pause a breath, and you may see—
they’re listening still,
as they always will be.
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