The forest floor in early spring
Doesn’t look like anything
Of value there would e’er be found,
Until I start to crawl around.
And there beneath the littered leaves
And winter-beaten crumpled weeds,
Small jewels eager fingers find
Sprouting from a woody vine.
My small bouquet I smuggle home,
A treasure from my woodland roam.
The tiny blossoms’ fragrance then
Brings me to my knees again.
© Deelight Zitzelberger. All rights reserved.