In a Meadow

If you were a flower,
I’d never find you enclosed
in a climate-controlled cubicle,
florid and fussed over.
But, on some classically lovely day
in springtime, out for a stroll,
there you’d be, delicate, yet hardy,
a rare breed of blossom.
Wild, they’d call you.
Oh, anything but,
to the discerning eye,
the open heart.
So lovely, I’d want to pick you
then and there.

Not mine to own, though,
I’d pull back my hand,
leaving you in the natural state-
not evicting you from your home.

Yet so drawn by your fresh beauty,
I would return to the spot
as long as you bloomed;
as long as these old legs
would still carry me.