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Be as the flower
that claims no identity:
it is the sky that begot it,
it is the wind that blows upon it,
it is the sun that shines,
it is the bee that feeds,
it is the aphides that bide,
it is soil that enlivens,
and it is you, that revels upon it;
it is love on a corsage,
it is life in a room,
it is remembrance in Winter,
and yet, it is not aught what we define it.

For, to a flower, what is a flower?”
A selected poem from: “Outside My Garret Window."

— The End —