The Soil

On a farm, on a hill in the middle of summer,

Something there happened, quite a hum-dummer.

And there's still no defining,

And still there's no name,

Maybe nothing or perhaps something ocurred; that is the claim.

A girl looked at the flower she newly had planted,

And wondered inside if this flower be granted.

Any thoughts of its own to share with itself,

Any thoughts on its purpose for being itself.

She thought that perhaps the flower would think,

Be on the edge of this or that- the brink.

The flower knew soil; it could feel it and believe it. 

The flower knew water; it could use it and drink it.

But did the flower know her, who had so purposely placed it?

Did the flower remember the past, not just present?

As she looked at this flower, she saw how it bent,

How the sun beat it down and saddened its scent.

She looked at the flower, though the flower couldn't look back, 

Bust she saw it was teetering, swaying this way, then that.

She imagined the flower deciding some thing,

Some major event for the flower's small brain.

And as the flower was dancing, the sun beat still harder,

The little girl cryed out! She must find her father.

What had started out as beautiful and new,

Had started to brown, crisp, and wilt as it grew.

The little girl watched as the flower grew still,

And was suddenly shaded, quite apart (or was it) from its own will.

And her father was standing with glass in his hand,

He taught the girl, but it was still his land.

He gave life to the flower again with his water,

And then carried off his gardener daughter.

The scene seemed over but the flower, though still distressed,

Turned up at the water, and whispered to the Father, "Yes."