The tulip

Leaves dampened with small droplets of recycled puddles
Crack o’ dawn
Wet soil encrusted with passer-by’s footprints
Elegance in a bird’s voice; chimes a melody, so soft
I stare vacantly at the bottoms of my shoes thanks to the reflection in the water beneath
On a stepping stone I ascended to a log in which moss extended over, to sit and ponder
Beauty
Brittle cobble fractures as I promenade for hours
They aren’t wasted hours, I don’t want to go home
Whispers from breeze sweeps my hair back from my cheeks
I gently deposit my finger into a free-flowing stream, because when I elevate it into the air I am wise in knowing which way the wind blows
Although I’m negligent to care because I’m thrilled that it does blow, despite the route in which it goes
My soul feels decontaminated of torment as I respire out here
In a world of my own which I am blessed with
I have reached my journeys end
To the tulip, to mourn it
It was your favourite flower and I don’t want to pick it, I want it to exist
I miss you