O’ crush not these petals of mine,
nor tether them in polished glass.
Grow weary not of bounteous sun,
though I’d wither (waste) through
seasons crisp —
O’ pluck not these petals of mine,
believe change is but inescapable.
I vary not ‘neath pressure of blue
storm; rather birth heart-song(s)
with each bud and beginning —
Photo credits: Pixabay
Posted on Midweek Motif @ Poets United
Posted on Open Link Night @ dVerse Pub