I usually don't pick the wildflowers

The old man of the mountain all dance

Golden; glowing about the rhythm of Her gusts

The sun's love reflecting back down to the valley below

Easter eggs high on a ridge

Reflected by Her three mirrors

I usually don't pick the wildflowers

Until one old man on the mountain called

They're all gifts

But this one I plucked

And I held it

I brought the old man of the mountain to the river below

Closer to waters he'd once known

For if Her and all Her magic

Magnetic molecules

Were to pass me by

Celestial

Golden, as the sun-drenched ridge

Timelessness

A passing glance stopped me in place

Her warm smile, a loving embrace

The blossom in Her hair was raised

No words, I look down

Unworthy of the light of the Goddesses that emanate from Her 3 mirrors

The intensity of Her Gaia smile overwhelms

My eyes are simply insufficient

She teaches me

With the wisdom of the old man on the mountain

Restorative

As if I had been chosen, because

I don't usually pick the wildflowers

For by proximity alone we behold their powers

I don't usually pick the wildflowers

Except for one, once

Lost in the reflection

Of Her three mirrors