i see a strange and
tiny flower there,

but don't know
what to call them.

they are not showy
as many flowers are.

but they have a
certain, very special

and are, when all
is said and done,
flowers, of their kind.

i look, and see the
river's rising, flowing
fast in full flood.

birds have returned
and so it's spring,

and summer won't
be far behind.

we won't complain:
snow or sunshine,
wind or rain.

we get what we get,
and some is free,
as i sit here 
beneath a tree.

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