I picked a flower.
Twas a lonely flower,
That grew on a wide asphalt plane.
It was sickly pale,
That rose I picked yesterday.
I put it in my dollar store vase.
Oh, how it glows
At nighttime.
My little Moon,
Bent and withered;
In solemn elegance,
It brings winds of Summer
Thru the midwinter snow,
On sleigh of memories;
I reminisce of times long gone.
I had a garden once.
It’s withered now;
Twas many years ago
That it hosted all my flowers;
Daffodils
Lilies
Tulips
Orchids and irises.
Yet, I never had a rose.
But now,
At dusk,
It stands before me;
How fragile her petals
How cruel her thorns,
Oh, hows she imbibes
The Moon-dew drops!
She is Spring and Summer,
She weaves strings of light;
Hangs them in the midnight sky!
And then - she dies.