Fresh

Here I sit,
Room fresh full of flowers,
and the day just before dusk.
I gaze out my window in wonder.
How can a day so dated
hold such a prodigious amount of pigment?
The sun is out of sight,
But its’ light lingers within the trees

Here I ponder,
Among the flowers and their faces,
and their violet glass vases.
From one stem they slither,
And up the trunk they travel,
‘till up at the top, they unravel.
This is where there splendor gets me,
As my eyes follow the stem up’t the flower


They open up,
with their hands to the heavens,
and their eyes to the skies.
They reach ever so gently,
Yet with such a structure, that
their enthusiasm is inevitable.

And I still sit,
Baffled by their beauty,
speculating why I sat here to begin with.
What sufficiency it has caused me,
this moment of study.
My time not corrupted,
Only my mind,
freed.