The day is wrapped in clouds and cold
and so am I,
determined in my unhappiness,
marching up a mountain,
anger in every step.
And there, nestled in the shelter of a fallen log,
pierced by an errant ray of sun,
shines a violet,
a single lavender blossom,
an April treasure in November.
Growing by serendipity or design
what does it matter,
when an entire mood can be altered
by the sight of small purple petals?