Wooing the Artist With Flowers

Words are merely thoughts to keep flowers company; Pictures you can hang in your hall. But the faces of these blossoms, Slightly jealous of your smile, See well past the obstacles you have stored there. There is tenderness in their contemplation of the grayness in your eyes. And they mutter amidst the clutter, 'tis not the speed that makes the journey, but the direction that you choose’. Whilst welcoming the warmth from your hands as you arrange them.