The Marigold
Like charcoal stain as thick as soot,
the leaves were crumbling underfoot,
and murkiness was manifold.
I stood, enveloped by a fog,
a lonesome figure in the bog,
and shuddered in the gloaming's cold.
As through the woods I'd had to grope,
I'd had no beam of shining hope.
I'd stopped, for I'd become less bold. . .
And now I had grown feverish
with longing, so I made a wish
for light to touch me hundredfold. . .
I must have fallen to the ground,
for I awoke to sun and sound.
Such beauty I was to behold,
for near my face, in ruddy tint,
like something in an artist’s print
was one amazing, perfect marigold!
For Deb Wilson's Maybe I'm Amazed!Poetry Contest
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