The blue clouds drift slowly
in mid-air with nowhere to go.
The bluebird flies purposefully
between the clouds, over the trees,
and westward.
The silk violet stands waiting . . .
A small hand reaches down.
Lips form a smile,
A voice says, “thank you.”
The vase holds violets, green stems,
and love.
c Copyright 2012, Freeda Baker Nichols
From Vortex, 1978