Flowers, Sticks and Stones
He gathered flowers, petals which felt like first rain,
“She loves me; not” his heart in strain,
Relentless plucks, his hope at test,
Until the final petal indeed whispered, “yes”.
While in the forest she roamed, mustering her tone,
Carefully and with good measure picking up each stick and stone,
Her purpose and dreams were clear,
For in the forest’s embrace she was overcoming her fear,
Destined to meet at the meadows their paths to align,
Both displayed their treasure, intentions benign.
Yet when he saw her’s, he fled in fear, from their dream, her call, abandoning it all.
Leaving behind a spinster in solitude's bitter thrall,
Who just wanted to weave her homely call.
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