Friends And Flowers

 

A withered bloom, a fallen petal, a bye-gone

delight of luminous color, once brightly shone

under Southern skies, radiant ‘neath the

warming comfort of the sun’s rays.

Now its glory is dimmed by time, as seasons

come, fade away, thus beckoning the chill of

winter’s night, ‘til Spring ushers in

a dawning new day.

Yet, I recall the infant beauty of said flower,

in its youth, how it blossomed in full maturity

to dazzle the eye and nose of all, with

its splendor and fragrant prime.

Memories linger long of such wonder, yearning

to see life’s cycle renew, but frigid winds

and blankets of snow lurk about, as

clock and calendar keep pace with Father Time.

I did my best, oh for sure, to raise and nurture

my bright little ones, free from

choking weeds and grasses, sparing them

from the ‘bugs’ of life.

Then my pendulum of thought swings to

recollections of how friends, past and present, how so

like they are to the fragile bloom, prone to

wilt asunder time’s varied knife.

Ah, too often we become careless, negligent, taking all

for granted, our prosperity looms all about, but then

the newness and zeal for long-labored joys drift away

thorns and thistles spring up, choke, abound.

We take for granted all we need is hard work to

obtain, not maintain, a most dreadful mistake ever

silence of hand and a closed mouth

Does not nurture anything sound.

A withered bloom, a mum friend, victims alike in time passing

similar indeed both are, each requiring

a master ‘gardener’s’ hand constant, a heart and

mind devoted to love’s task.

What a shame to replace nature’s beauty

with bouquets of papered sticks and too

come to realize similarly, friendships of yore

became oddly shaped, mysterious, papered masks.

—Joaquin A. Hawkins—

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