How can someone love a stunted bloom?
Same way the sun says goodnight to the moon,
Same way a dish can run away with a spoon
Differences are celebrated, but aren’t they often charged?
The moon was too shy to say hello to the sun,
And Dish often wondered whether it were Fork with which Spoon would rather run
Nuances in these “what if’s” are rather pointless, though the rate at which they’re indulged in have the potency to ruin a day, week, year.
The bloom will cry over her crooked stem, shed tears over her fallen petals but then,
What can she do?
All things grow, despite the rain,
The world finds a way to bounce back again
Every Saturday morning I see the moon in the sky, blushing sweetly at the sun as he waves her goodnight
Dish told Spoon every one of her fears, and last I heard they’ve been happy for years
The bloom is still stunted, and she smiles sadly, but last time I saw her, she looked a little taller, and her petals will come back gradually
Woolgathering 