Once, when I was very young,

I wrote a poem, to be read and sung.

It had a beginning, but no end,

And so, it is to you,

I send

My Poem!


It started, with an image fair.

Of words, floating on the air.

Of insects, flying on the wing,

Teaching flowers to talk and sing!


As young boys spend their summer days,

Picking stems in sweet bouquets.

Bringing them, sticky, home to Ma,

Who’ll arrange them in a canning jar!


And so, the flowers, turn to song,

They will be read! Can do no wrong!

And, on the windowsill, you’ll see,

a house fly or a honey bee,

Clapping antennae, cheerfully!


The bouquet itself, is it’s own joy,

Rhyming “color” with “spring”

And “love” with “boy.”


Mary Bok lives in Camden.