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
This so sacred spot
Where once a part
Of beauty lived...

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2007 Alfred Charasz