Little boy praying at the shore,
do you not realize what you have done?
That flower, soft red petals and sharp thorns,
freshly picked and found home in your hands --
you tossed it into that achingly slow creek.
Little boy you must've known
that a flower like that would float away;
Yet here you kneel, tired eyes searching for it
and a hoarse voice calling out a name.
Little boy you could've stopped this.
Fingers were meant to hold things dear
yet it slipped, and you used them to point.
Feet were meant to bring people together
yet you watched, sitting, while it slowly washed away.
Little boy, what if I told you a secret?
That flower, with broken stem and burnt leaves,
held onto a passing rock and waited.
It waited for you to fight for it, but you didn't,
so that flower let go, drifting slowly away,
listening to the cries of a Little boy who could have.