The ocean’s breeze in frosty blue.
And the spinning of ice so gently.
The watery stars as lovely spotlights,
Upon the petals of a wholesome light.
Why do we know,
As humans do.
That flowers are,
A metaphor of love?
Destined with finitude,
And the limitations of words.
I respond with care,
And my voice pictorial.
A white flower,
Entangled on the glorious branches,
With angels and walnuts,
Perched beautifully upon a tree.
A red flower,
Standing so gently,
Amidst the sound of lovely hearts,
And the towering vines of royal green.
A purple flower,
And a drop of pure water.
Above the glories,
Of a forest ever true.
A pink flower,
Beside the waterfall.
Of a cold round basin,
With all numbers of the rainbows.
A dark black flower,
Upon the fog of misty blue.
Beside the red mountains,
As colorations of the meadow.
A bright blue flower,
As a crown of petals.
With the crescent shapes of sky,
In reflections of the moon.