The Flowers

Still it sits, like a statue in the eyes of the world.

Waiting for what? It know not.

All that is left is the birds in the trees

and the flowers.


The flowers.


The path is empty, as usual.

The steps are gone, replaced by wind.

Whispering . . . whispering . . .

Rustling the rainbows of the trees.


The flowers.


Stone beneath, wood above,

open to the sky yet shielded.

Shielded from the light that wears the stone

That coats the colors of the forest.


The flowers.


Waiting for the light to fade;

the sun to drop forever more.

To take with it the colors of the world

and start anew with dawn thereafter.