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La Libre Penseé
January 13, 2014
A little bud turns to the sky,
Blocked from a ray of light.
She endeavors to grow into a flower.
But as the colorful leaves fall, they whisper
“Why try?”
As the sun dies,
The ground freezes,
Yet the delicate bud still has faith.
But the winter sky gives her doubt.
In this darkness, the bud still stands
In this blizzard, she will still survive.
Every definition of normal is
Somewhat irregular.
“One night I will rise from this cold, sparkling cloud.
And burst into a beauteous flower,
A Winter Pansy.”
© Laurie T., Hopkinton, MA
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