June 5, 2018
By Sam Huber
The flower without a vase,
An expressive face,
Laughter in a trace,
Shaking the tree down to its base.
The face is a broken vase,
Glory be thy trace,
Like a child in a foot race,
He broke this here vase.
Look on this face,
Perhaps this table has a week base,
I choose to laugh with this trace,
Nature has the only grace.
It knows there is no base,
The roots decide how far I trace,
And whether I put a smile on my face,
So clean up that vase,
Each piece like your days,
Laugher must come in waves,
For the flower is what we save.
It is scarlet and it is yellow,
Come over here and kiss this fellow,
Leaves that hang so mellow,
Like on a head on a throw pillow.
Like the head dress of the pharaoh,
It’s stem like pharaoh’s marrow,
Make a song like sparrow,
A tune heard in alley of the curvy and harrowed.
The roots dangle beneath the soil,
Drip in the waters of the mortal coil,
A meal that cannot be kept in tin foil,
Only felt with bare feet upon the naked soil.
Let them spring forth for once from this vase,
The release of shock on this caged face,
Let the stone fall without trace,
Sweep it under the table’s base.
Like a children’s flip book the kid’s actions are erased,
Keep running until he was in daze,
Now the roots have left their maze,
Mother I will not meet your gaze.
Until the flower is put back in its proper place,
None but a few feet near the gnomes face,
All evidence gone without a trace,
Now ends my childhood foot race.