The Poets Flower Garden

There grew a garden of roses in a valley under the sun; while a perfect poet sat on the face of the moon writing of wonder, birds, flowers, and fun- The cosmos in rage arose washing the poet and his words away, and the roses were left dying for thirst as the birds no longer had a say- What color the moon now without its bountiful bard, once so true? darkest nights linger slow in shades deep and lowly blue- Shall we so easily give up our place of light; for where would we plant all that is new, these precious flowers, so gay and bright- The dew on the grass knows of the poets return, but speaks nary a whisper as our beauty continues to fade and burn- Does the sun each morn rise in mere mortal vain? or, will it soon share its glory and give again living words like fresh rain- What fate awaits flowers and poet alike, both blooming to die... as all the while heads do bow, and hearts look upward, toward the sky-