The lonely hydrangea, on a shelf
In a pot
It was not
Where he wanted to be.
For he had aspirations
Beside the carnations
In a bed more befitting to he.

Where bees fill their pockets
And foxgloves hold sway,
He'd grace
Such a place
One fine day.

In shadows of orchards green,
Dappled light,
Apples bright,
He would be part of the scene.

But alas came his Autumn, and blue
Turned to brown
Barren gown
Showing winter was due.

How sad his last bow
In the night,
Waxen light
Of a moon pale, will not wake him now.