Dear flowers, My dearest flower.

Whatever happened to the flowers? The water lilies and poppies and marigolds, With their dewy stalks and folds? There were many once, I could swear. Frost has yet to claim his keep. Yet once they seemed everywhere, Never so rare. Did they wilt? I think I ought to recall, But I am not sure they were dashed, As leaves in fall. They were budding once, No greater than this thumb, Along the way the river runs. And it came to pass, In time and while, That they would be tugged from their grass. Not merely by hand of child, But by currents seeming so wild. It was always so, That that they would return by snow, From wherever they go, An embrace of warmth for smile. Not so anymore, Towards where the trees kiss the sea, For which the lilies departed from shore. Yes, that was it, Those strange motions, Those strange notions, They have stolen the flowers away! When was that day? I really should know, But I must have been away… I know not what happened to those flowers, My flowers, Only that they did not stay. Though I worry, I can but hope they understand when I say, That should you ever be lost along the river, Or at the crossroads with chimes in sway, I always shall leave the door open at home, So that the light will guide your way, So that to return and rest, You always may.