Poetry
As the farmer made his rounds of the crops,
He spotted something peculiar
He bent down in the brown soil
And found a vivid flower.
This flower, enduring the seasons past
Had weathered edges and petals
But its color, ever so bright
Shone more than most metals.
As if the flower had inherited its color
Or stolen it from the sun,
This flower had such a deep hue of yellow
Of a gold medal won.
After enduring the elements
Of the harsh winter’s snow
It seemed miraculous that this flower
Would ever continue to grow.
Now this farmer was a nature-loving man
He decided to cherish this thing
He scooped it up, soil in hand
And onto it he would cling
He hunched over, as to protect
The valuable object in hand
Thinking of this plant’s well being,
Ideas of its life he planned
He raced and paced and rushed through the kitchen
Searching for a vase.
With no avail until the end
He found a perfect place
He went outside to dig some dirt,
Caressing it in his palms
He started to nourish the flower
But something struck his qualms.
How could the flower stay alive,
With no water to drink?
He went out to the well for some water
Working with it in sync.
His worn, tanned hands went to work
Gripping onto the rope.
Was there any water left?
He pulled up with much hope.
A full bucket greeted him
With great jubilance
He filled his pot up to the brim
With much exuberance.
And so the flower grew and grew
A spectacle for all
As the mighty flower grew
Very, very tall!
-ALEX M.
Days of the Week
58