Poetry-Nature

The waterfall, thought as brave, Viewed as unwearable, unstoppable, ablaze, Secretly cowers and hopes to end its days But continues to roar and never strays. The brambles, viewed as fierce and tough, Ignorant, guarded, as if they’ve had enough And stay like that until they wither, Pretending to be cool and tastelessly blither. The garden, swaying with the wind Seen as vulnerable, flimsy, weak, and thin But only leans with this harsh blow Because it has learned to go with the flow. The ocean, scrubbing away at the sand, Knows it could do something much more grand But still tries to reach for the land With a watery, frothy, desperate hand. The dirt, seen as filthy and rotted, With jewels and gems its depths are dotted But still it chooses to follow the dark way For it’s afraid to be seen with a happy day. The pebble, smoothed down by the stream, Seen as solitary, so hadn’t tried to join a team And as it tried to let out a scream Beneath the waters, it was held, serene. But the rose, viewed as superficial behind thorns Was expected to laugh with pity and scorn At the ugly weeds as they were promptly picked But instead it didn’t, thoughtful to contradict. And until this very significant moment It had been waiting for the bestowment Of the gift it had long ago earned: The petals it has, since young age, yearned. And this is how the rose gained its beauty, For performing a kind act, a necessity, a duty, And now you look at the rose and think pretty Instead of low, arrogant, and gritty. Maya Wolfford, 13Cincinnati, OH