Little Girl And Lost Blossom Poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell

A pretty thing, a fragile thing,
a somersault in a sonnet,
with golden curls and pale white pearls,
she gathered and gazed upon it.

The sweet bouquet, a quaint display,
purple petals on gentle blooms,
the tiny leaves like verdant sleeves
on the skin of silken perfumes.

She dreams in sound, in sound surround,
where the shadows no longer steal,
where light is bright at dark of night;
and her dreams are suddenly real.

Once so awesome, her lost blossom
folded from famine and fatigue.
For all her days, she spoke its praise
in the double-bloom of intrigue.

Her eyes were cast until the last
between the open sea and sky.
She cared for all, both big and small,
among the flowers' fainted sigh.

A garden grows and no one knows
all the secrets planted within.
I see a girl, a pretty pearl
in the nacre of earthen skin.

A gentle nod to dear, sweet God,
a summer breeze full of spirit.
A soar above, a song of love,
a gift to those who will hear it.

A single stone, a harp of bone,
a bowl of rice to feed the moon,
a sacred stream, a nascent dream,
she flies high in a loft balloon.