“flower”

In morning’s pale and gentle light,  
A tender bloom wakes from the night.  
Its velvet petals, soft and bright,  
Unfold in colors pure and right.

A golden heart, where dew drops gleam,  
Reflects the sun’s first waking beam;  
Its perfume drifts in silken streams,  
Like whispered notes within a dream.

In gardens wild or window clay,  
Or tucked beside a stony way,  
A flower’s face will turn to day,  
And hope takes root where blossoms stay.

A symbol spun of petal, leaf—  
Of fragile joy, of time so brief—  
It teaches us, through days so fleet,  
That beauty’s found in small, sweet peace.

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