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It was only a flower
Just a cornflower from my yard
Plucked from a dozen of the same,
But I chose it not because it was the brightest,
No, in truth it was quite pale in shade.
It bore no luster to its petals
Nor any real gleam in its leaves,
Yet I still tucked it away safe in my satchel,
The same I took to school that day.
It endured the lessons till the recess bell tolled.
With a blush contrasting the cornflower I carried,
I shuffled toward the swing-set which never seemed so menacing,
An iron altar awaiting an offering in my five-year old mind,
But not nearly as imposing as the boy it supported.
Swaying on his suspended throne I felt my breath catch;
I held out my blossom but with averted eyes.
The crunching of gravel as he slipped away
Was my first cruel rebuff and it still stings
Like a fall on the offending grit.
Sitting on his forsaken swing,
Simply pondering the shade of my cornflower
With a hue I thought was so near his eyes.