The bud plucked too early Never quite becoming in bloom A season too late a dime too short Struggling to keep her heavy head lifted up for a glimpse of the sun. Mundane weekdays plague the soil Toil man’s only friend To reap the rewards he hath planted for himself While she waits to bloom. Maybe, during the waiting, she missed her time Isn’t that the saddest thought of all? Holding on tightly to the vine to survive Never learning how to let go Maybe, this is her time Spring rain shall wash her clean And her beauty will shine. Chin lifted, shoulder’s raised Head held high Eyes sparkling with mischief There will be no doubt she’s in bloom.