You’re a silly little thing, you;
your petals match the flaming color of your soul.
I’ve gotten to know the sturdiness of your stem.
A lilting, leafy texture, that
bows willingly to my giving light,
and the light, I willingly give.
Tonight, the moon weeps.
The moon scorns the hatred of the sun,
the tree’s favor to the sun,
the king’s loyalty to the day.
Your sepal drooped in sorrow, and your leaves
suffered as they scorched in agony.
And I, with gentle luminescence,
brought you from dormancy. And with loyal conscience, I saw
a blossom never once harvested by the monotony of the day.