We have a flower box on our back porch.
The house is painted gray, the box is red.
I can see the flower box from my bed
it sits upon the railing on the porch.
When late afternoon shadows start to grow,
and light starts fading in cloudy demise.
A cool brisk wind startles the tree below,
leaving limpid leaves rippling in the breeze.
The porch protects the flowers in the box,
but, a boisterous brash breeze calls to them.
"Come join the dance, pirouette with the Phlox,
bring your white petals on your lovely stem,"
Serenely the petals appear to pout,
then seductively twist and turn about,
as they stretch long and tall above their bed.
Stirring white petals on their long tall head.
Lets leave our beds and run around the house,
feeling warm west wind blowing through our bed,
a soft caress for paling white effuse,
with drops of pouring rain upon our head.