Who can love the flowers,
Or the trees—if there’s you?
Who can enjoy portraits in their frames
Or stories, with their names,
The pictures and promises in the colorful brochures of Kathmandu—
Likely just as false as true—if there’s you?
And if they happen to be true, the things they say,
In the song, the meme, or the Broadway play,
In the books, in the philosophical arguments made for hours,
Who can fail to appreciate one movement you make towards them?
Who can love the flowers?