Monday, May 5

The Chance

There in a garden, flowers play;
Their leaves are stained with nature’s day.
Deep inside their golden cores
Lie swirling rings of powdered shores
Which beckon in the sway.

Feather petals plume beyond
The brightest breast of pollen fronds.
They shiver at a finger’s touch
Or anything that weighs as much,
Though of it, they are fond.

How poignant that these living things
Must be so rash before they sing.
The chance of being crushed each takes;
It is a daring choice to make
For all those simply being.

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