The outstretched hand

It waits.
It watches.

It looks around at the many people it so loves.
It reads this, and finds a growing sense of purpose in its fleeting existence.

It waits.
It watches.

It craves to bring joy to those around it.
It longs for that one glance that would fulfill its life ambition.

It waits.
It watches.

It tries to be of use when those around it are blues-stricken.
It feels helpless at the seeming futility of its role.

But it waits.
It watches.

It stretches out its hand, to reach out to a friend in need.
Its eyes watch with love streaming out.

And it waits.
It watches.

Having waited and watched and longed for that one touch,
It looks back at the life it has lived.
It remembers the moments that have been its days. It recalls every instance of its attempt at being put to use; of its glance upward at every passing stranger; of its sweet, painful desperation for being a part of something bigger than itself; of its undying love for those it cared for; of that all pervasive, all overpowering need, to be loved.

Hands still outstretched, tears in its eyes, and with a hope for a brighter life ahead, it finally falls, and dies.

Dear, dear flower, Rest in Peace.