The Scent of Being

To a flower,
never morose in the morn,
but a shade of light
that will catch my eye,
and a drop of life
that will yield my air.

Never sullen in the moonlight,
or when the dew forms a tear:
slides along the petals rim,
caressing softly the seraphim,
relieved fully in descent
to settle so sweetly in that grasp.

Never still in the dusk’s remain,
but softly soothed by the wind:
spoken gently in quiet whispers,
pining over Nature’s treasures,
relieved fully along its path
to rustle sweetly that gentle grasp.

To a flower,
always mellow in the morn;
its simple song
in the Sunlight true
a shining mirror
of that golden hue.

-CF