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My, a flower in the middle of a winter.
The shards of ice are brushing the pedals.
A pedal cry's with its pollen running away.
The coldness will destroy it's uncertain path.
Oh, the pain in the pedal is felt within the stem.
The stem aches which anguishes the crippling roots.
The snow drowns the flower with gentle grace.
The flower rests happily now with the others.
Giving itself up for the wonder's of December.
But we'll think of the flower still, we'll remember.
The grass bristles will come back to poke us.
Your seeds will blossom in the middle of June.
The new rosebud will sing the last flowers tune.
The other two spread it's roots to the worlds garden.