Videre Recte

I once came 'cross a bright yellow bag of Funyuns in the snow
I asked aloud, "I wonder, how'd it get here in the snow? 
And must it go?

Should I walk over, pick it up, and throw it in the trash,
Or I its lifespan interrupt and light it with a match
And burn it all to ash?

Or let it breathe, this plastic sleeve? The snow melts in an hour.
And let it dance in winter's breeze—not savory nor sour.
A flower is a flower."

And so it was, as God above, ethereal though not,
I let her die then let her live
But didn't watch her go.
I wasn't meant to know.