Ark blooms.

Coveted flowers
Shed petals in even
Their finest environments;
Becoming the ash of old age
And the trade of dry merchandise vendors.

Swung arc like
Over the heads of
The newly wed and onto
The casks of the truly dead,
Or underfoot in front of both debates,

Until patted down
New mounds of earth,
Displaced to make way
For freshly buried treasure
Chests, become their resting place;

To be left insect free
And blown seedless for
The lack of happenings then
Lifted at the throat by sorrowed thieves,
Arriving without a fresh set in their hands.