My fingers welt under the heat of the sun.

It’s not sad,
I know they will grow back soon.
In fact, next season.

I love the summer.

I get to fall apart
and nobody asks a question,
it’s what I’m supposed to do.
Welt and let my petals sink and meld with
the dirt and leaves.
And I get to be a stem and a head
until I shrivel under exponential temperatures.

I am not expected to last.
And I don’t.