Life Cycle Poem by Mary Champion

I plunge my fingers into the moist dirt.
I watch a worm squirm through the loosened earth.
I'm imagining what magic will convert
these small dry seeds and so give birth
to fresh green shoots that grow towards the light
which beckons them when spring sun starts to shine.
I'll watch the seedlings sprout, increase in height
‘til buds begin to form; buds that contain
the flower form predestined in the seed.
Nurtured by the earth, the sun and rain,
in its due time the flower will proceed
to bloom, form its own seeds then wilt and die.
Is there some point? Is there a reason why?