Flowers and music.
A song I made about the Crow-Toe.
When the flower is oppressed, to the sod it bends.
When the flower is happy it opens its bud.
The crow-toe is tender receiving new friends.
It rises up strong from the cracking mud.
The crow-toe pauses in the field and ways.
The angellically simple lovely feat.
It dies if we tread upon where it lays.
The crow-toe breaks in the evening sweet.
The crow-toe shakes in a weak descent.
Public in Nature as Nature does choose.
A simple heart breathes the crow-toe's scent.
The flower gets wet and fresh in the morning dews.
The flower's heart the breezes push.
Spied on the ground with much surprise.
It lives beside the native bush.
It lives with the spirited butterflies.
It pierces the friendly hills of late.
Satins bloom on the edges round.
It resonates passed in an empty wait.
Small on the ground are specimens found.
Hundreds of bees find the flower nice.
The crow-toe in sweetness is revealed outside.
It flashes in the valleys of wind and ice.
It stoops but is safe in the countryside.
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