A flower out of time

Lily of the valley,

your lucent pearls glisten

like stained glass reflected

beneath the still moon’s crescent.

Your gossamer petals curl,

faintly crinkled with grief—

their edges laced

with soft melancholy.

Your stem bows—drooping

in a modest, bashful curtsy,

as if to shield your face

from the sun and its follies.

Still, they pluck your petals—

clutch your willowy stems,

and wrench your downcast gaze

toward the sun’s searing glare.

Do they scorn you

for not being a sunflower,

so radiant, brazen, lively?

Or a fragrant red rose,

so elegant, poised, lovely?

You bloom in winter’s hush

and fade when spring arrives—

so they dismiss you

for thriving in solitude,

a flower out of time.

Lily of the valley,

so soft, sweet, and tender—

you may never win the sunlit pageant,

but to me, forevermore,

you’re my special soul flower.