My Poetry. To Die, and Live again.

Delicate flowers,
Swaying freely
Amid a windy backdrop,
Seeking slight protection.

Behind a broken wall,
Being saved by stone;
Sunshine opening buds,
Swollen by the heat,
Desperate to bloom,
Petals still strong,
Newly formed.

Morning dew evident,
Now splattered on the wall;
Flowers now grouped,
Feeling stronger in numbers;
Wind dying down,
Aroma in the air;
Flowers now still,
Content, happy,
Closing for the night,
Ready to face
Another day.

Birds pecking at petals,
Bees buzzing around pollen;
Flowers dying down,
Turning brown,
Determined to grow again,
Seeds carried for miles
By hungry birds
Or blown by the wind,
Landing in another place,
Sheltered, protected.

Spring comes again,
Flowers now in growth,
Spreading more joy,
Cascading colors,
Beauty beyond scope;
In an empty space,
Now filled with brightness,
Admired by passers-by.

© William Sinclair Manson 2025