Withered flower,
Falling prey to time and elements,
Resisting the majesty of the burning sun;
But soon must fall,
From the branch to the earth,
And slowly turn into dust.

Once did she bloom with beauty,
Beholden to the eyes of men.
But she already served her purpose.
Gone even the bees and butterflies;
Flapping their wings merrily!

Her once dominant beauty gone,
Yet remain in my memory.
In my heart, I know
Spring will come again next year.
There, I hope to see,
There, I hope to be?