carried on a summer breeze;
beside the highway, quiet streams,
an open field embraced by trees.
Should you pluck me, I shall last
a while in your vase and die;
ugly, brown, I will turn;
becoming dust before your eyes.
Transplant me in your garden,
view me through stained glass.
I wilt; you saturate my soil
with passion from the past.
I can not live within restraints;
pots or planters ringed with gold,
contained in walls or window sills.
Alas, I will not grow.
Between the pages of your word,
press me in your book of love,
to look upon, remembering
how beautiful I once was.
Published December 3rd, 2007 in the Midwest Writing Center's 2nd Annual Anthology.
© 2006
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2 comments:
I like this and the meaning of letting it be free was nice and to not enjoy for the few days but for longer. Great title as well.
Very touching! In a way I feel sad reading it, but being confined is sad, too. What's the right balance between connection and being free?
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