By Eileen J Boyd
In the Window of the Night
A Blossom forms and comes into sight.
It matures, not in its head,
But lingers long and, instead,
Rises beyond the imagination
That protects its germination.
Into the mist it swiftly travels,
As the grasping vine unravels,
Taking with it a sense of will,
When over the cliff it will spill
And cascade into the deep
Of the ravine that is asleep.
Then with anguish the chasm will awaken,
Since the desire for sleep is forsaken.
It will welcome the foreign invader,
That is not an itinerant trader.
It’s a living, loving creature
That will, one day, be a feature
In a picture on a wall
To be viewed by one and all.