Poetry

The orange-red colour of the new morning,
the first blossoming flower of spring
and up in the big old oak tree
the chatter of little birds that sing,
 
the blue of the sky’s canopy,
the buzzing of bee after bee
from flower to flower
are things that are dear to me
 
and when life comes with thundershower after thundershower
and even the smallest problems do gigantic tower
like solid rocky hills of the hardest stone,
then there is still beauty in even the simplest flower
 
and when at times I am all-alone
and every friend is gone
then life seems far too much
until I hear you bright voice on the phone.