Interview

Flower, first of spring,
Standing in solidarity.
Alone atop a hill,
Quite an irregularity.

Microphone and camera,
Chart for recording.
This flower has stories to tell,
Why and who and how and when and I become a shell
As I want more.

Silence.
I press,
Silence.
I stress,
Silence.

Cry and shout
And scream and pout
And still silence from the flower.

Is it mad?
Is it insane?
All I am asking are simple questions
And the flower returns my exasperation
With no expressions.

I want it now,
No, I need it now.
Rage and anger, until to far.

Out of the ground.
And into my hands.

The little flower is now on death's queue
Did I even need an interview?