A Bouquet

The wild flowers sit together in the vase, chattering to each other in their own language.
They are discussing the subject of love.

"Love is pure and noble," the cow parsley declares. "And thus it comes only to those who are pure of heart and whose intentions are noble."
"What rubbish!" scoffs the buttercup. "Surely love is for everyone. And who cares about purity anyway? Your love doesn't sound like much fun to me."
"I'll say!" laughs the purple vetch. "And you know, love is never lasting. Once the initial novelty wears off, you soon get bored. I'd rather just have a good time than get all my emotions involved."
Now the forget-me-not's turn comes, and her voice is weary with grief. "I wish love had never come into my life. Love is a foolish mistake that only brings pain and misery. Now my heart is closed, and I shall never love again."
The last voice is that of the poppy nestling in the centre of the group,  largely unnoticed until now.
"I can say this much of love. It is neither pure, nor impure; not a bodily sensation or cerebral concept. It is beyond quarrels and conflicts, beyond good and evil, beyond the planets, beyond everything we can possibly visualise in our limited minds. And yet if we only look more closely with our inner eye, we will realise it is at the very core of our being. That is the nature of love." And the poppy falls silent.
A small wild rose, whom no one at all has noticed, shakes his head. "They debate a truth that can never be spoken aloud. Love is surely closer to silence than any of their explanations," he says to himself. But he smiles and carries on listening.