What is love if not a flower?
A growth from nothing that bursts with power?
A seed that sprouts from something bleak,
Then springs up high to reach its peak?
Or at least thats what it seems,
As the plant sores seemly to the trees
For really underneath the sprout still struggles
With weeds, and bugs, and the parasites muddle.
Still, nature seems to have preference
With arbitrary design, and random difference,
But even a stem can break the rock
And cast ‘way those that seem to mock.
Maybe through this wall, the flower can bloom,
Showing how, with love, beauty comes through.
There will be times, the flower will wither
Like the days of heat or the terrible winter,
Yet despite this, the flower can endure
And survive long past the devil’s lure.
So maybe love is just a flower,
That is there to light the darkest days, that fills life’s many hours.

R.W. Keating