He is a young little garden.

Through the seasons, he always listens,
morning and night, he still stands in his patience.

When everybody has found a hand to hold,
he is left with only a faint glow of gold;

believing love is found
in all that’s grown.

Love will rise from dust, he trusts.

Weighing time between his thumbs,
when his heart begins to answer the drums.
A garden ready to give all its sincerity,
hoping his love can root into serenity.

But he holds a quiet question,
if perhaps in June,
his rose will finally bloom.