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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