The Flower

For it seems, I did not steal a passing glance

To keep with me through summer’s trance—

I let my line of sight caress the bricks’ history,

The bloodied tale that I sought to create—

The unravelled cover of a shrouded mystery.

I did not waver, upon my callous endeavour,

Hopeful the image held would last forever—

For perhaps, during the moment, I was akin

To a kindly sort, two hundred years my senior—

Who also denied the courtyard’s grin.

And the chickadees cuddled within the wings

Of a flowered tree surely built for kings.

Perhaps the wistfulness I felt was from doubt,

Etched into the stones beneath my feet,

And the unbudded lilies which would come about.

From Gargoyled creatures came a moaning,

Of all the secrets held, the pensive droning

Poised to be added to the storybook—

A staple of melancholic attitude adhered to

Beneath brevity and a breathless look.

Adjacent to the brick, I have become the lore,

Among the nameless who have walked before.

I did not break my eyes from the unfledged tower,

For I could not bear to brood upon the serenity,

Of the garden’s one and only flower.

    DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com