True beauty is a small framed window when
you and your stolen muse are looking at each other once more,
when a seed looks upon the clouds that provided it rain,
so it may grow to be a plant, a flower, bouquet
and presenting itself to the skies, it sings,
as its pedals dance themselves like they once did in the rain.
A poem dedicated to a very influential teacher of mine, who was wrongly taken from me, but was once again reunited in what could of only been considered a tear jerking movie scene. All my best to Mrs. Cunniff