Last Flower

When winter's iron fist
Touches the last flower's
Vivid bloom,
Condemns it to oblivion,
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 2006 Alfred Charasz