To yearn for a quaint canvas
is to learn to mottle hues
without comparison;
tar not your
strokes of vivid scarlet
and streaks of glittering gold
with black paints of others;
mar not your
pretty painted rose
and beautiful silent doves
with bland taints of others.
Let your pigments trickle
over seeds that will bloom
into lush flower beds
of vibrant ambrosial petals
that attest the worthwhile rain;
Let your gentle brush strokes outline
the garden you belong in
and the sun you’ll grow towards
with the fruits you’ll proffer.
So bloom, albeit among other flowers,
of different views and different hues
— water not the budding envy,
but persist your inner beauty;
Bloom, albeit inclement weathers,
And gusts of persuasions and fads
— be grounded lest weathered,
be shrewd lest wavered