An Elegy for Unbloomed Flowers

I want to apologise to the flowers 

that I picked before their time. 

The impression of me surely sours 

at that heinous, unspeakable crime. 

I want to say sorry, to buds I’ve unearthed

and blossoms I’ve ripped from the trees,

no matter my words, actions can’t be reversed.

Sadly, premature uprooting proceeds. 

My selfish past as a butcher of beauty 

is unfathomable evil to some,

but I couldn’t seem to resist this cruelty 

when I heard Spring’s sweet, heavenly hum. 

But now I don’t pick planted flowers in Spring. 

I walk past them as if I’m immune, 

as now I’m aware of the great suffering

when we, unbloomed flowers, are plucked too soon.