Childhood sits in meadow bower,
pulling petals from a flower –
Love me not, or love me well,
only days to come will tell.
Time moves on, and hope blooms bright,
but girlish dreams will die this night.
Maiden rests in meadow green,
pulling petals from their sheen;
dying, petals lose their bloom
as tears soak bridal glory’s tomb.
Time moves on, and hope fades fast,
the die is set, her fate is cast.
Mother sinks in meadow shade,
pulling petals in the glade;
habit tells her love belongs
to children and their hopeful songs.
Time moves on, and hope lies dead,
daisies, fringeless, sink like lead.
Woman weeps in meadow bare,
pulling petals which aren’t there;
empty heart bleeds petals past,
and bleeding, seeds its peace at last.
Time moves on, and hope renews,
as Wounded hands hold girl’s deep bruise.