life growing up without a father, and his passing away. |
In a cultivated garden or out in the wild A sprout appears like a newborn child. Was it planted there, or a tossed seed? Will it become a flower or unwanted weed? Someone will nurture it and treat it with care Or leave it unattended, it doesn’t seem fair Both have potential for form and beauty One has a gardener, bound to their duty Alone in the woods, it fights for its life Looking for the weak, predators are rife A chance to survive is all some will ask It could be so simple or a grueling task The beautiful ones are cut in their prime Put in a vase, admired for a short time For others, the same fate happens for them But never, their inner beauty, seen as a gem Dodging a rabbit or a hiker’s passing shoe Becoming stronger, drinking the morning dew The wild flower endures without helpful direction Striving, just the same, out of reach of perfection Then the winter comes, and the weather turns cold The petals start to wither as the blossom grows old It lies in quiet splendor on the soft flower bed Leaves and mulch for a pillow, caressing its head Its withered form is quiet, lying in the grass Nowhere to go as time continues to pass The sun disappears as the biting wind lashes Carrying away what remains in the form of ashes |