This is a free verse I wrote one night for someone I love.... It seems to be, that a flower, weathered by the elements, found in a harsh land, is infinantly more beautiful than the most brilliant of roses. When it is rained apon, and battered by the wind, it developes a sweetness that cannot be tasted. It is simply beheld A wonerful sunflower in a bed of thorny roses. It has become dark, and slightly limber because, as it seems, the sunflower is the object of natures abuse. How cruel! Why should this rare surprise be treated with such disregard, nay, such contempt? By Sweet Mother Nature no less. Why should this beautiful flower be subject to such torment. It is a gift. In a bed of troubled beauty and nasty surprises, this sunflower is a threatless joy. Open to the world, and as beutiful as any man or woan through God's eyes. Such disdain I feel for Mother Nature, and the conditions she has wroth! But, perhaps, there is a purpose to these harsh conditions. Just the same as the purpose of a key is to fit a lock. This flower had every ounce of beauty from its days as a seed. Possibly, the conditions were set apon it to unlock this beauty. A rose could not survive a heavy rain as a majestic sunflower would. It would mearly die, only to be replaced with more like it. But the sunflower is stonger. It holds up to the rain in an unknown defiance. It does not nkow why it recieves the heaviest rain or the coldest wind, but it stands anyway. It carries on each and every day. Some days, the rain is not s hard, and the wind from the south blows warm. And, as if the second in the two stages of a pendulam, days arrive that nearly destroy our rare treasure. And it goes on until someone discovers the flower growing amongst the thorns. The flower breaks your heart to think of the treatment it must suffer, yet it inspires you with its streangth and courage. But, the pendulam of our lives swings back again as we are thrown into heartache. The sunflower that we long for cannot be reached over the bed of thorns. You fell your longing for this delicate flower growing, but at the same time, you worry. You worry that what you are doing is wrong. You worry of what to do once you have reached the flower. It cannot be kept, but it cannot stay. The delicacy of it calls for your support, but a beauty so strong and wild must be free. I find myself at the thorn patches' edge, unable to reach the flower for which I yern. And so, I support it in every way that I am able, and I write this. I write so that I may better grasp my eternal love for the sunflower I have found in a bed of thorns and roses. thanks for reading.
