Look, her almost bare stems bows away from glass,
casting charms and spells so you’ll face the glass.

Leaning towards light, this one expects you to play
like some little girl who’s not encased in glass.

Green, sharp and strict, still hoping. A soft sway
lights the words she needs to explain the glass.

Crossed as a sword, daring, calling today
shyly—come closer to her. She’ll tame the glass.

Commanding light to kiss her, calling May
out of April, she flies to perfectly shade the glass.

Almost straight as a delicate mast, gay
as a face card, reflecting the spray of glass.

Gather them all and mark their place—
Softly, gentle, careful not to break the glass.

– Mark J. Mitchell