Dense romantic woodland, choired by song wren and shrike,
Gushing rivers adorned with algae, inhabited by pike.
Amongst enchanting wild roses and magnificent oak,
Lies a tiny forget-me-not, new-born and just awoke.
She looks up to greet the sky but is restricted by looming jade branches,
She watches the leaves in envy as they carelessly begin their dances.
How she wishes she could move like that, without her short, constrictive stem,
If only she could twirl and fly around the rooftop just like them.
Why couldn’t she be a tall tree with freedom and a view?
Why couldn’t she be a vivid red instead of passive indigo blue?
Inevitably she wilts away, decomposing into the ground,
Her dreams threaten to evaporate as she disappears without a sound.
Her last few days, she spent looking down, if only she would see,
The product of her wishful thinking, the buds she helped to seed.
A community of forget-me-nots, a blue haze carpeting the way onto the stream,
No flower lives alone, they’re all a part of a team.
Though no majestic sycamore, her legacy was admirably great,
Her fortunate descendants won’t have to experience a similar fate.
Harvested by her lonely faith, grown with her reputable grace,
You’ll be remembered little forget-me-not, your resilience shall not waste.
By: Danielle, Age 15, Meath