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—