The flower.
There’s much to be said about a flower,
How you hold her,
Do you hold her far away,
Letting her hang down,
As you walk along,
That beaten path,
Or do you hold her close,
Hold her tight,
Breathing her in,
Gently patting her back,
Her head,
Looking down on you,
Smiling,
The flowers centre,
Looking nowhere else,
But at you.
That flower,
Rests on your lap,
Like the lights,
Bouncing off the lake,
And the gentle breeze,
Blowing in the trees,
Bringing calm,
Bringing peace,
To a heart,
That’s over flowing,
Spilling from its lips.
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