When she was younger, in a world of war,
In her own realm, peace and love held power.
Every hippie had at least one flower,
In her long and unbound hair to adore.
Soon older, the flowers alas no more,
Withered and gone, fallen like a shower,
Yet still she cast the seeds like a sower
Of love upon the cool winds as before.
But yet, who knows whenever seeds may fall,
If they shall perish, or endure and grow.
To be watered and nourished by the rain,
Until in summer's sun grown straight and tall.
And then, as perhaps only time can show,
One day, one summer, she may bloom again.


So many moons, passing along their mile,
Drifting along upon the wind of dreams,
Seeds of love fall according to fate's schemes
Upon another's heart, warm and fertile.
A small pitcher, sweetly she pours awhile
The water of her love so gently streams.
Until flowers return as new hope gleams,
In the gentle breeze to flutter and smile.
Days pass, the blooming of her heart so slow,
She begins to know how it really feels
Now loved and alive to another's charms
Days pass, along with the nights that follow
A spirit wounded by loneliness heals
Now her happiness is there in her arms.


A summer's day with the warmth at its height,
As the sun shimmered in a sky of blue.
Like some historic myth of love come true,
With her dressed like a goddess, all in white.
In a golden haze so perfect and bright,
Flowers fresh bloomed in a rainbow of hue.
While on whispered breeze fragrant perfumes blew
Through her soft hair as it glowed in that light.
Soon the sun sinking towards a green hill,
All senses appeased and each one's heart full.
Brought back to earth by the trill of a lark,
A sky so alive yet perfectly still.
The little white clouds of soft cotton-wool,
Small echoes of the daisies in the park.