As Winter is wandering, no longer to loom,
A choir of flowers is starting to bloom.
This scene is too pretty to taint with a man,
So instead comes a boy reaching down with his hand
To a Daisy, the prettiest flower to sing.
His expression is moved from a sober down swing
To a face full of hope and of wishful intent.
His eyebrows now bow and he looks discontent,
Like he wishes the Daisy a different flower,
A Tulip, perhaps, something showing the power
Of God more completely, but then the boy blinks.
His eyes seem to listen; his eyebrows unkink.
What he hears is unknown, but he pulls from his pocket
A letter with perfume, a picture, a locket.
He smiles, uncertain, and says the words sweetly,
"She loves me." He pauses and sighs very deeply.
He picks the first petal and closes his eyes.
The Daisy, it seems, stops singing and cries
For the fear of the dangerous words coming soon.
The choir's beginning to darken its tune
To a mournful display of the Daisy's dismay,
But the boy only hears what his girlfriend would say
When he reads her sweet letter his lips mouth the words,
"Truly blessed to love you," and he thinks of the chords
Of a song that she sang to him once about God.
As his mind is reminded, again his lips nod,
"I thank you God," and he looks at the picture.
His nose sips the perfume and his ears feel the texture
Of the canticle key-change. His frown melts away
Like Winter to spring and his heart sings the lay.
The Daisy, soprano, coos joyfully high
As her petals are taken, to tell them good-bye.
The boy's smile grows certain and certainly lovely.
He shouts now, "She loves me. She loves me. She loves me."
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 1:18 AM UTC
As Winter is wandering, no longer to loom,
A choir of flowers is starting to bloom.
This scene is too pretty to taint with a man,
So instead comes a boy reaching down with his hand
To a Daisy, the prettiest flower to sing.
His expression is moved from a sober down swing
To a face full of hope and of wishful intent.
His eyebrows now bow and he looks discontent,
Like he wishes the Daisy a different flower,
A Tulip, perhaps, something showing the power
Of God more completely, but then the boy blinks.
His eyes seem to listen; his eyebrows unkink.
What he hears is unknown, but he pulls from his pocket
A letter with perfume, a picture, a locket.
He smiles, uncertain, and says the words sweetly,
"She loves me." He pauses and sighs very deeply.
He picks the first petal and closes his eyes.
The Daisy, it seems, stops singing and cries
For the fear of the dangerous words coming soon.
The choir's beginning to darken its tune
To a mournful display of the Daisy's dismay,
But the boy only hears what his girlfriend would say
When he reads her sweet letter his lips mouth the words,
"Truly blessed to love you," and he thinks of the chords
Of a song that she sang to him once about God.
As his mind is reminded, again his lips nod,
"I thank you God," and he looks at the picture.
His nose sips the perfume and his ears feel the texture
Of the canticle key-change. His frown melts away
Like Winter to spring and his heart sings the lay.
The Daisy, soprano, coos joyfully high
As her petals are taken, to tell them good-bye.
The boy's smile grows certain and certainly lovely.
He shouts now, "She loves me. She loves me. She loves me."
From around 2003 I think, back when I was in love.
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