Poem: The Wild Blossom

It's just a small and fragile thing.
Was born in an unusual spring.
It yearns for summer's tender wind.
It does not care what autumn brings.
The winter made this peaceful thing.

And then the blossom starts to sing.
Oh life, you are a wondrous thing!
Sun on my leaves, now does begin
another tale of grass and green.
Of how I love this tender stream,
the raindrops running down my skin.

Now the wild blossom grows in size.
It is still young but might arise,
might be the mightiest in size!
Or could just grow to normal size.

The gardener has to be tender.
The blossom needs a generous spender.
One that cares and will defend her.
It also needs a lot of time.
And maybe then, the bloom will shine.