The Florist

Never was a florist profound as he,

Arranging blooms in a glorious feat

Those small posies held marvelous verses

Peach blossom leaves dance in backs of hearses

Freesia and hibiscus linger unworn

Blank hands no scratches, unsoiled by thorn

Reputation unscathed by anything,

Nor the young peasant “held” under his wing

Who holds scars but still an undisturbed smile

Though another not seen for a long mile

Wrapping himself around his precious arts

On he slaves, like a man hunting for hearts

While the peasant labors, does what he can,

Calm as an ocean sits the unworn hands

Salute is taken by the unworn hand

As for the scars, he still kneels to this man