For most, I am the symbol of love,
for him, I am his queen.
Tires himself in sun all day,
still happy and green and gay.
At times gets a peek at me,
But never a greedy look
I wonder where his heart might be
If only I'd be bold and free.
But bound I am to others' rules
I am the lovers' gift-
not allowed to enjoy, tire or curl
I am to mend my looks for the world.
What use is it to be me?
I admire him for his work.
His kind's brave, struggling hard,
nurturing each and every yard.
He houses within him secrets-
of winter, spring and fall.
And where I see my prickly pose
He sees in me a beautiful rose.
Zaynab
6 April 2019
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A Paint Bucket of Words
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