A flower — the "Purple Democrat" — is the beloved of bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds alike. It offers its nectar proportionally, giving each visitor just what they need. Its face is rounder than the moon and ruddier than a blooming orchid. It doesn’t wait for June; even before the world turns green, its sturdy little face stands up to the wind, grappling with the grass for light and soil like a gentle litigant fighting for life.
Later, when summer’s hills are crowded with newer blooms, this flower never withdraws a single drop of sweetness out of jealousy. It lives for the noon sun, and the bee announces its steady, sovereign progress in an unwavering hum. In the end, it is the bravest of all — the last to surrender, and even when frost cancels it, it seems unaware of defeat. The speaker’s tone holds deep admiration for this resilient, generous presence, and the mood is one of tender awe at something small that lives completely, without complaint or comparison.