bluebell

Running through the meadow I found a flower
wilted on the edge of the Crystal Lake Creek.
It is normal for one to pass by the blue bell:
it is only a flower, to stop would be of no use to it.

By the glow of the sun I stooped down to the ground
and touched the cripple, a newly budding flower, a blue bell;
its ground was soft, almost uprooted.
I dug it up. It was only a young bud.

My fingers digging in the dirt brought me to reason--
the flower was not dead; the blue bell could be saved,
replanted, tilled, cared for by myself.
Beside the lake I replanted blue bell.