What does the soul when it is not loved?
What does the seed -- without the indulging embrace of cool wet dew upon her softened shell?
What does the marigold -- without the kiss of the golden sun upon her golden brow?
What does the meadow filled with wild heather -- without the gaze of one upon her beauty?
What does the fields of fragrant lavender hyssops -- without a breath of one to breathe her in?
What does a hill filled with trails lined of Indian-paintbrush -- without a foot to walk her paths?
What does the slopes of Camas lilies -- without a hand to run across her slender dew-filled petals?
What does a flower that is not cherished?
To be loved is to live; to fill and feel the measure of her creation.
To not be loved, is to wither slowly while she waits wishing and longing in silence for the sun to rise...
...But the sun remains unveiled.
