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The base of the mountain blooms with her fields
Azalea alone collects what it yields.
Her rough, wooden wagon filled for today
She watches the sun bounce off her display,
Splashing bright colors: red, purple and green
Joyful to know what few others have seen.
The sun and scents mixing, filling her head
With words remembered her mother had said:
“Be true to yourself, there’s only one you
Work hard and grow wise, that’s all you can do.”
She hitches her mule and heads up the hill
Another day, no excitement or thrill.
Absent minded, she peddles her flowers
This well worn routine filling her hours
With quiet dispare for her lot in life:
Providing a man a gift for his wife
While remaining alone, shy and aloof;
Her soul wants to climb and scream from the roof,
That she is alive and needs love as well
Filled with wild thoughts she has no one to tell.
So she arranges her flowers once more
Possessing a beauty few can ignore
Yet her heart’s alone and longs for the day
The love of her life will whisk her away |
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