by Sydney G., 17
As winter ends, bare fields lie fallow; cold
chilly wind still gusts, an unforgiving breeze.
Wet snow melts into sludge, dank soil folds,
while by and by I hear birds in the trees.
Impenetrable roads choke thick with mud.
Aside, I see a battered flower, lone.
Poor broken sprout, cowering little bud—
can one sad flower become a bower home?
But still it blooms, though it will likely fail
to survive, choking in the muddy mead.
It is the only flower in the vale
I see, but surely others are buried
in the muck. I stoop, discover green leaves,
and marvel at the beauty Nature weaves.