How the tiny petals held on
To make the littlest of beauties—
Woven, sort of, as details
On fabrics made of grass,
Alone or in a crowd;
They make such impression
That one wonders if they’re named as such
Because of that,
Or if they are thus
Only by how they were first called.
Isn’t it lucky
That a shade of blue locked their beauty
In nothing short of nature’s poetry?
No longer do I see colours when I hear it
All with the five blues round a yellow core;
What beauty
A name, a word makes
When it fetches scenes from days before!
A word gives birth to words;
And words give birth to a name.
What mystery;
It baffles me.
So I hear a word now and see
A world of beauty no other word can claim to be
As I remember them,
Would they perhaps remember me?
Evelyn Dumag-Gabinete
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