We love when someone gives us flowers
And we love the mum, petunia, rose, or lily
Though knowing as we gaze on their beauty
That they will stay for many hours,–but only hours
Still, while they are in the vase
We take delight in the delicate pedals, scent
Like the gift of flowers, people in our lives are lent
A gift people are, a certain grace
We take delight when people are nearby
Yet the time we have together is uncertain
Long or short, impermanence is certain
People change, come and go, we meet and say goodbye
So the Buddhists say that enjoyment of friend, lover
Is dukkha—grief—suffering
Knowing the impermanence of everything
Gives the gift of delight and pleasure
For what it is, in friend, lover, or flower
David Fekete 