A Hydrangea's Lament
Her comely cheeks - a blush of pink,
where yesterday, there bloomed a rose -
demure though proud, the morning light
reprised the births each day unfolds.
Yet, in the end, the petals fall,
none left to catch the morning rain.
Gentle hands that wither slowly
evaporate, then come again.
As dreams of Autumn's solstice stare,
the truant blooms - we must forgive
or celebrate what left us there -
with any other heart that cares...
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