In the rising light of dawn, new flowers
bloom. Come the twilight, they close their petals
with a sigh. Though their season’s measured hours
may seem too short, whether rose or nettle,
when nature soothes the earth with lullaby
they only cede to sleep; they do not die.
Our bright season of exuberant youth,
mere blip when measured by eternity,
yet in the majesty of time and truth
abides the soul that sets the body free.
A time of bloom, a time of promised ease,
Such is the plan that each might find their peace.
Earth holds her treasures with a loving hand
that opens but to Heaven’s own command.