A Gentle Flower

Love is a gentle flower,

A beautiful sight to see;

Beginning life as a bud,

Unsure of what is to be;

It carefully opens up,

Absorbing sunlight for free;

Then shows its true colours while,

Blossoming beautifully.

A flower that has been picked,

Has a future that is bleak;

It withers and browns quickly,

Starts to die within a week;

The beauty is lost for good,

Never regaining its peak;

To find the strongest petals,

Within nature one must seek.

Love's flower's no different,

The rest of the plant's a must;

The roots are stability,

While the stamen is the lust;

The seeds are the potential,

The stem is support and trust;

With these key ingredients,

Nature is fair and just.

Photosynthesising joy,

Enough to last the dark night;

But even in the darkness,

The flower seeks out the light;

Instinct acts as a compass,

Highlighting paths left and right;

Somebody said love is blind,

But it has no need for sight.

Once the flower's at its best,

Honey bees move in with haste;

They can't resist temptation,

Leaving with legs that are laced;

In the flower's sweet nectar,

Because all will want a taste;

The flower's happy to share,

Because love's a shame to waste.