A cousin pointed you outto mewhen strolling calmlyto the abandoned playground.“A weed!” she falsely exclaimswhile she prods at youremeraldleaves.However, my eyesmust be deceiving me,for I seethe most enchanting creaturethat is known to man.Your velveteen leaves,with drops of morning dew,are mirages,transformingfrom a freshly spuncreamy golden foamto an arctic forest greenas deep as the night itself.Your indigo bud,hidden behind blankets of green,is a freshly washed gownhidden in the back of a dress shop,anticipation flooding throughevery one of Nature’s stitches,waiting for that someone to see it forwhat potential it has.A gift from Heaven itself,masked behind the roleit has been granted.Instead of plucking itfrom where it has begun toflourish,instead of pressing your immaculatebody against the coarse bindings of my scrapbook,instead of trying to alteryour stunning figure,I let you gosilently,for it is not my choicewhether your kind may stay aliveor not.There is nothing I can do,except for to hopethat my memoryof youwill not fade away.

Today, I continue to seeyour long lost brothers and sisterson evening strolls,in sunlit valleys,and inside the inner workingsof myheart.