Apple
Location
Though her face was young, her mind was mature
She was shy but indeed she could allure
She had the eyes of an owl and wisdom too
And in the gusts of wind, her long hair blew
There is one thing, though, one cannot forget
Always in her hand was a yellow fleurette
A romantic was she in any sense
Love from Mother Nature was most immense
She sang with the birds and danced with the trees
And ate the sweet gifts given by the bees
She read of her kind; but mostly Thoreau
And this pond named Walden where he would go
Down the rabbit hole of free thought was she
Becoming one with her chamomile tea
She questioned life in its very essence
Rarely a trait of the adolescence
She found most of her answers in the sky
Often taking the road less traveled by
As the leaves fell, she sat bundled in wool
Looking thankfully at the glass half full
Her eyes willingly enveloped the scene
And she smelled the cold air, so crisp, so clean
How does one handle such blissful feelings?
Through art is where she would put these dealings
In every direction her paint brush stroke
She painted so much that one day it broke
Though this misfortune did cause her some grief
She just used her hands and then felt relief
A grin crept up as she looked at her hand
Oh the joys that come from the things unplanned
No one had reached this interesting place
She had gotten used to the same blank face
The moving shadows were all they could see
Educated they did not want to be
They look and only see a lost spirit
"Conform! Conform! Well, can she not hear it?"
This made her sad; oh how sore she had felt
So by the old oak tree was where she knelt
The tree told her stories of life and love
And how he was friends with each star above
She decided to tell him of this one dream
And what she had seen by the Willamette stream
It looked like something she read in a book
That's when she was welcomed by a Chinook
They were dancing and singing around a big fire
And climbing trees to see who could get higher
Never had she seen so much joy before
Love was what they had and needed no more
This memory brought tears gently rolling
But those of exultance, no need for consoling
Sometimes I do with that one of these days
I would meet this girl that my mind portrays
She would love my trees and paint on their leaves
And uniquely illustrate what she perceives
She'll know my mood as I alternate seasons
And rain may come without any reasons
My wishes for her, like those of a mother:
To be her own person and no one other
For I know she will come; I do not fret
And clasped in her hand, a yellow fleurette