The Meaning of Life

Do flowers ever wonder why they’re here?
Why simple fields sprout Beauty where they grow?
Do flowers seek some meaning to revere?
Or does the field of flowers simply know?
Like poetry can paint a landscape, wide
Or focus on a portrait with it’s words
The Poet knows that flowers cannot hide
From Beauty’s seekers or from little birds
They’re here to ask their questions of the Sun
Hyperion gives warmth and love and light
But doesn’t give them answers, no, not one
He may not know the answers, but He might
The meaning of all life is just to ask
And find the warmth and light in which to bask.

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