She  always reached,

Towards the sun,

And never let her face,

Look down.

All the little,

Garden flowers,

Basked in her shade,

As they whispered,

Longingly,

“We wish we,

Were like her.”

But the whispers,

Never reached her,

At her lonely height,

As she thought,

“I only wish,

I could be like them.”

They were small,

And great in number,

And never knew,

A lonely day,

And how she wished,

That her stem,

Was shorter,

And her face not pointed up,

Because while all the pansies,

Black-eyed Susans,

And peonies,

Talked and mingled,

She could only look up,

And wish she was like,

Them.

When the summer left,

And the winter came,

Her stem blackened,

And she tumbled to the earth

To join all the little,

Garden flowers at last,

But they looked at her sadly,

And said,

“We always looked up to you,

Why did you have to fall?”

And it was then she realized,

That from her lofty perch,

She could see,

A world they never could,

From their short stems,

Close to the earth.

She was different,

She was tall,

And she was,

The queen,

Of the garden flowers.