A Little Bud

A little bud,
Longs for the day it will be a flower,
The day its petals will spread,
And all say twas its finest hour,
Little does it know,
That beauty comes with a price,
That when it opens up to follow the sun,
The gardener shall pluck it,
And put it on a table,
Slowly to die,
To reminisce on its life,
And wish it had remained,
A little bud.

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