In the stillness of her room

She sat with crepe of every hue;

And pictured each an unknown bloom

For which she’d bring to light.

Tearing, cutting, twist and fold

Fragile paper—color bold--and

Each would have a center—gold

Defying mask of night.

Recalling forms within her mind,

She forms the petals—every kind

In patient detail, every line—

Imposters she creates.

Stems, leaves and even thorns

At her hands, so real were born, and

Even Earth was soon to mourn—the

Charlatans of fate.

Hours passed, this lonesome day

While paper gardens on display

Breathing life of ease, defrayed--

Of artist’s willful spite.

Complete deception now her feat

Sprays a fragrance natural sweet,

That bees and birds will try to eat

In longing, hunger flight

Then by and by at midnight’s hour,

She brings outside each handmade flower,

And celebrates her godly power--

In glorious disdain.

Yet sadness lives as well in dreams;

As truth is always what it seems;

And lonely always finds its means,

To melt them in the rain.