The unimportant journey

Of becoming me,

Will be told

Through a flower

As very vulnerable I can be:

Another flower

Bloomed in summer,

No red Rose, or a Daisy

Nor a pretty Lily,

Or a Jasmine on a tree

Not as elegant as the Lotus,

Or as tall as the Tulip,

Or a Wordsworth's daffodil-

Nor majestic as

The Orchid, by the mill.

This flower was small

And ordinary;

And no different-

It grew to be-

In spring and summer-

A steadfast little flower,

I indeed could see.

When fervent Autumn came,

She hasn't since been the same!

Oh dear little one,

Were the strong winds

To blame?

Your once so green leaves

Now are all torn,

And frost and winter is near

Yet, you are all worn!

But, must I fear

For the little

And ordinary one?

.............................

Will the meadows

Lack their beauty,

When just a small

One is gone?