Why do the flowers die

I was sitting on my front porch swinging,
Not doing much, but a little thinking;
When my baby-girl came tromping up the steps, a woeful look upon her face,
I inched over, patted the swing, making space.

I asked, "What is it? You can tell me",
"Is it a bee sting or did you scrape a knee?",
"Did a classmate tease you today?",
"Did a boy kiss you, then run away?";
"Daddy's here. I'm not going to go",
"Please, baby, just let me know".

My daughter looked me in the eye,
And began with a shuddering sigh:
"Daddy, why do people hate?",
"Instead of rushing into anger, they could just wait",
"Why are there wars, where some little girl loses her father?";
"And how come telling the girl falls to her mother?".

"What sense is there to hating based on the color of skin?",
"And an abused little boy's heart will never quite mend.";
"I don't understand, Daddy, please explain why,",
"When I pick flowers for you, why do the flowers die?"

I had no answer, no adult-wisdom to share,
My daughter saw my helplessness, and grew even more scared;
Finally she uttered, very minute: "I think that when the rain falls from the sky",
"It isn't water, but the millions of tears God cries.",
With that said, my little angel ambled back down off the porch,
Leaving her father very cold with the knowledge that his daughter already understood that this world has no warmth.