The Thinking Sapling

Snap! goes the camera,
centred on the flora.
Lily smiling, flowers in hand.
On the wall, the photo hangs.

Day after day, she’d stride
to the meadow where flowers hide.
She picked the fair and bright,
then wandered home at last light.

Father beamed as she came back.
His camera opened, shuttered, and snapped.
Mother’s glad she’s back at last.
The flowers added to her vase.

For years she picked—now the meadow is green.
The colours have faded; no flora is seen.
Lily’s bouquet shrank and thinned—
she brought back little, or nothing.

The wall, it seemed, would never fill—
Father’s camera resting still.
Mother’s vase soon greyed and died.
The empty vase, where silence lies.

Father looked at the wall of pictures.
“Remember when you brought home flowers?”
Mother looked at the empty vase.
“Why can’t you bring flowers back?”

Lily looked far and wide,
but bright colours she couldn’t find.
Exhausted, she collapsed and cried.
At last light, she stood, then wiped and sighed.

Father saw her, then sat back down.
Mother frowned, her gaze turned down.
The vase and camera stayed on the ground,
as Lily stepped in without a sound.