Last Flower

When winter's iron fist
Touches the last flower's
Vivid bloom,
Condemns it to oblivion
With its icy touch,
And wilted fall its petals
To the freezing ground,
Till naught is left,
The sky, the gentle
Whispering breeze,
And God himself
Will still remember
That so sacred spot
Where once a part
Of beauty lived.

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2005 Alfred Charasz