Sign up to save your podcasts
Or
Share An April Flower Blooming. -by- Matthew F. Blowers III
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Or
An April Flower Blooming. -by- Matthew F. Blowers III
April Flower Blooming.
She sat in the gazebo
creating a centerpiece
lovelier than all of God's flowers,
framed in cedar like rare art,
she was the pink of perfection,
in the sublime atmosphere
of April's warmth,
I stood concealed
some distance away
breathless at her beauty
as she read the note I had
tucked into the rafters.
Too shy to hand deliver it at thirteen
my most unlucky year,
but I was sure that was
all soon to change.
earlier today I had left
her a previous note.
by her lunch tray at school,
when she went to get another milk.
It told her how much I secretly
admired her and that I would reveal
who I was in another note at the gazebo
that set dead center
in the town square.
I asked her to hang a scarf
over the railing
if she thought I was worthy
of pursuing her affection.
I saw her smile shyly that afternoon
and now she was here at the gazebo,
her lovely eyelashes downcast to read
my words of passion for her.
When she was done,
she started to leave
and my heart wrenched
like a wrung out sponge,
my tongue dried to
the roof of my palette,
but then she turned
and opened her purse
and pulled out many colored scarves,
which she hung up brightly
over the railings
and the latticework of that gazebo.
When she was finished
she sat primly and waited
as I sheepishly came forward
to take her hand,
and then I walked that day in the park
with a dream I thought I had little chance
of seeing realized in those spring breezes
of my thirteenth year back when hope
was on fire in my soul
View all episodes
By Art~Whimsically YoursApril Flower Blooming.
She sat in the gazebo
creating a centerpiece
lovelier than all of God's flowers,
framed in cedar like rare art,
she was the pink of perfection,
in the sublime atmosphere
of April's warmth,
I stood concealed
some distance away
breathless at her beauty
as she read the note I had
tucked into the rafters.
Too shy to hand deliver it at thirteen
my most unlucky year,
but I was sure that was
all soon to change.
earlier today I had left
her a previous note.
by her lunch tray at school,
when she went to get another milk.
It told her how much I secretly
admired her and that I would reveal
who I was in another note at the gazebo
that set dead center
in the town square.
I asked her to hang a scarf
over the railing
if she thought I was worthy
of pursuing her affection.
I saw her smile shyly that afternoon
and now she was here at the gazebo,
her lovely eyelashes downcast to read
my words of passion for her.
When she was done,
she started to leave
and my heart wrenched
like a wrung out sponge,
my tongue dried to
the roof of my palette,
but then she turned
and opened her purse
and pulled out many colored scarves,
which she hung up brightly
over the railings
and the latticework of that gazebo.
When she was finished
she sat primly and waited
as I sheepishly came forward
to take her hand,
and then I walked that day in the park
with a dream I thought I had little chance
of seeing realized in those spring breezes
of my thirteenth year back when hope
was on fire in my soul