There is one flower I’ve known from time to time
which even grows in darkness (as I’ve learned).
It always falls outside my paradigm —
its size depending on how much I yearned.
It flourishes with trust and moonly light
and must be watered well with tears of joy.
The buds lie dormant in the dead of night
for only in the dawn they redeploy.
However, such a flower as this can wilt
or shrivel from neglect and fade away.
No bed of roses yet has drawn a quilt
of dovely down where I, in peace, can lay.
But now I’ve reached a meadow on my road
with flowers galore. Could this be my abode?
© 2012, Alan Morrison