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

This is the #potd poem of the day.

I would love to write a poem for you. See how.
For other featured POTDs, click here.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s