The flower

The flower blossoms
too long a bud,
tied tight with leaves
of doubt.

The petals peer,
in timid touch,
the edge of world,
without.

The sigh of life
is stronger now,
to prise imprisoning
shell.

The petals stretch,
unfold themselves;
a crumpled beauty
still.

The flower formed,
arms open wide,
can only raise her
face.

Salutes the sun,
drinks wild the wind,
to savour life’s strange
taste.

86

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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