The Gardener's Call

As the flower slowly fades,
upon its stately stem,
it does not do so,
on a lark or whim.
For it has reached the end,
of its real beauty,
and pales now from,
the call of love and duty.

If it were not able to,
grow weaker and to fall,
it would not have heard,
the Gardener's faithful call.
Or have ever known,
the gentleness of His hand,
when He toiled and tilled,
the weedy, rocky land.

If it did not diminish,
and turn so pasty pale,
or naught a drop of water,
came from His able well,
it would never have grown,
so lofty high;
or been able to soar beyond,
the blueness of the sky.

If the flower did not wither,
dry up and go to seed,
it would have not understood,
the Gardener's truest need.
For within each lovely bloom,
a thousand more will grow,
the Gardener's plot has room,
for all the seeds we sow!