The silky blue of peaceful skies, soft and warm as lullabies,
’Tis painted upon the subtle petals of hydrangea nigh.
What dusty path dare make this winding way, slithering
Throughout these shimmering hues, seemingly unwithering,
Oblivious to the chill breezes of autumn’s perfumed frosts,
And yet, so fragile, ephemeral, for nigh one moment tossed
By summer’s playfulness are they before glinting cold
Envelops painted petals, and their beauty, once so bold,
Drowns in the cruel and unrelenting march of time;
Yet, perhaps one down-trodden traveler lost in rhyme
Shall happen upon the shady solitude of this small oasis,
And happen upon the lilies nodding their freckled faces,
And although the sweet summer shall fade, perchance
Fate this one death forbade. For though the frost dances
Its glistening dance across the ground, one solitary flower,
Plucked from her summer-lit bed in that season’s finest hour,
Rests between the pages of the poetry book brought by one
Lonesome voyager, to be admired under the harsh wintry suns.
And though snows long ago buried that calm summer haven,
One flower knows not dark snowstorms, swooping like ravens,
For ever and ever ’tis her bright, regal head pillowed upon
The words and ideals of the great masters here and gone,
And eternally shall she rejoice in freedom of expression, in art,
In those words living on through every winter of her vibrant heart.