Blue Flowers

Just something that I wrote today to show my friend, Ali, that all it takes to write a poem is a recurring theme (in this case, blue flowers), and a simple story.

Blue Flowers

She walked through the field of blue flowers,
Barefoot, with her eyes all aglow.
Her pretty black hair shone in the sun,
As she sat and watched the flowers grow.

He sat by the gurgling creek bed,
All tousled hair and freckled cheeks.
Eleven years old; a long, lazy day,
By those flowers, he fell fast asleep.

They met when he was but eighteen,
And she a mere sixteen years old.
They wandered the fields with a rod and a reel,
And they watched all the blue flowers grow.

Three years passed, and they wed in a chapel.
She wore pretty blue flowers in her hair.
They were young, with no cares about them,
And love lingered in the sweet summer air.

He built a snug cabin soon after,
Nestled right in the midst of the flowers,
With a porch out in front, so when babies came,
They could sit out and rock through the hours.

Many years and the children had all gone,
From the cabin and peaceful, old land,
But the two stayed in the field of blue flowers,
Telling stories and holding hands.