Ah, the woodland flower.
Alone in a sea of green,
of ferns, rotting log, mossy rock.
She sends up her last stores of energy.
A valiant burst of color,
a last attempt to coach the world on inner beauty.
Truly this must have been a time of prayer to the warrior women of old.
Or to the bard,
on the roadside, gazing.
Humming in soliloquy,
a lonely tune of the times in-between.
Or perhaps the haggard old ranger.
Dashing through the forest,
hurdling logs and slapping away brambles,
such speed–such stealth!
gone by the time
the doe turns to take heed.
Might he pause and enjoy this moment?