she ticks and ties in daily life,
and checks each box the way she should;
she follows where the herd may lead,
in search of someplace safe, and good

her voice is rarely raised, because
she knows “this too, will surely pass –“;
but finds the promised hope she seeks
in flowers in the simple-grass.

now spring, of course, it comes and goes,
and so do seasons of her life;
the bread that she must earn each day,
the butter scraped from off the knife —

the ugliness of tattered things,
she must escape the gray morass,
and does so; quiet on the lawn
mid flowers in the simple-grass.

    for beauty grows, uncalled, in desolation –
    and joy is meant for our heart’s consolation