Is this adoration? At first light they lift their heads and face the East. The sun rises, and so their petals splay and quiver like a ring of flames. 
Each flower tracks that object as it arcs across the sky – a field of fiery discs fixated and entranced. By evening, they face the West, and every day watch the thing they worship die. Their gathered mass bow in dark bereavement – until first light when something draws their faces to the East.