‘The Flower’s Refrain’: A Poem by Ulysses Arlen

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The Flower’s Refrain

A tender shoot breaks through the ground,
Drawn upward by the golden sun;
It spreads its quiet leaves around,
And grows till warmer days are done.
It heeds not time nor wind nor rain—
Still, it grows, and grows again.

A bloom appears with breathless grace,
Soft petals flushed in morning flame;
It lifts its head in trembling space,
Unknowing glory, free of name.
It drinks the dew from dawn’s cool hand—
And finds its place within the land.

It sways where summer breezes pass,
Its scent afloat on warming air.
The bees drift in through blades of grass,
To taste the sweetness hidden there.
They circle close in gold refrain—
While still it grows, and grows again.

By brook and bank, young Sally strays,
She gathers blooms for woven thread.
She spies the pink in morning’s haze,
And lifts its fragile, trembling head.
She breaks the stem for joy, not pain—
And runs with laughter down the lane.

A single leaf slips through her hand,
And flutters down to earth below.
She runs across the flowering land,
And leaves the blossom where winds blow.
Its roots remain through sun and rain—
And still it grows, and grows again.

From soil once torn, new green is born,
A tender sprout, unbowed, unbent.
It greets the light like early morn,
And climbs in silent, calm ascent.
It fights to live beyond the pain,
And grows again through loss and strain.

Now summer hums in golden threads,
And pink returns to crown the field.
The bees fly low with bobbing heads,
To sip the bloom the sun revealed.
Its petals pulse in bright domain—
A quiet joy the months have gained.

But autumn breathes her cooling sigh,
And rain begins its silver song.
The flower bows beneath the sky,
Yet holds its colors bright and strong.
The clouds drift off; the sun remains—
And still it grows, and grows again.

No eye beholds this gentle fire,
No hand recalls its fading gleam.
It glows, then fades, as hearts expire—
A petal drifting in a dream.
The world forgets what once had lain—
And life slips by like flowing rain.

Now winter lays her crystal sheet,
And stills the field in breathless white.
The bloom retreats from frost’s cold beat,
And folds itself away from light.
Snow cloaks the earth in hushed domain—
Yet still it grows, and grows again.

Each flake that falls bears tales to tell,
A whisper frozen on the breeze.
They settle where the blossoms fell,
And shiver on the trembling trees.
The flower sleeps through cold and pain—
While dreaming under silent rain.

The bees lie quiet in their hive,
And even Sally hides from storms.
The woods seem barely yet alive,
As winter locks its frozen doors.
But deep in earth, past frost and chain—
A root still stirs, and grows again.

Then time moves on with patient tread,
And sun breaks through the thinning gray.
Its warming touch revives the dead,
And wakes the clay where cold once lay.
The thawing ground, the softening rain—
Proclaim the end of cold’s refrain.

Now spring returns in lilting tone,
The meadow sighs, the songbirds trill.
New shoots arise from root and stone,
Their voices soft, the world grown still.
The flower lifts from winter’s chain—
And shoots to grow, and grow again.

And Sally, grown, walks by the stream,
Where once she danced in younger years.
She stops, as if within a dream,
And kneels with eyes that hold old tears.
She sees the blush, she feels the strain—
And knows it was not all in vain.

So life comes back where death once lay,
And time restores what once it steals.
The bloom returns, if not to stay—
Then shows that sorrow slowly heals.
Though hearts may break and bear the stain—
Still love will grow, and grow again.

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Ulysses Arlen resides in India, where he works a desk job by day and writes at night.