Orchid child with velvet skin,
Where lilac light comes drifting in,
So soft it feels like borrowed air,
As if it knows to handle with care.
She stands where morning falls too wide,
With nowhere gentle left to hide,
As though the day was never meant,
For something made so delicate.
Why was she placed where breezes roam,
In air that does not feel like home?
Where every passing, carless part,
Can settle soft yet leave a mark?
An orchid blooms in shaded glass,
Where filtered hours drift and pass,
It leans from light it cannot hold,
Too pale for heat, too fine for cold.
Its petals bruise at slightest change,
From touch too near, from air too strange.
It drinks from quiet, measured rain,
And turns away from weight and strain.
So she, alike, in silence grown,
Takes the world too sharply known.
Each moment pressing, faint but deep,
In hues her fragile form will keep.
Why shape a thing so finely made,
To wander bright, unyielding shade,
Where even light, in golden streams,
Can feel too much for tender things?
Why give her skin that answers so,
To every shift it comes to know,
That even time, in passing by,
Can leave its trace and not say why?
Is there a place where she might be,
Untouched by quiet injury?
Or must she bloom, though trembling still,
In ways the world cannot make still?
An orchid kept from harsher skies
Still folds beneath too-watchful eyes.
Orchid child with velvet skin,
Still lets the lilac light drift in.
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