Not a withering flower,
or, one that wilts
in the noon day Sun,
but one that buds
with much promise,
of a blossom that lasts,
until life itself is done.
Never quite the same
in the changing light,
with its shifting hues
and varied moods,
It is constant only
in its freshness,
flowing through
its tender veins.
Even in the budding,
its promise given.
In too harsh a light,
with too little water, or,
with too much shade,
Even in soil, not quite right,
it moulds and adapts
to an ever changing clime,
staying ever so tender
and deliciously soft.
It is the only home
to a world grown tired,
the only space to refresh
worn out limbs, aching cells.
By its light, we live still,
together, in a rhythm,
that keeps us dancing
to the end of our days!