Here’s a poem I made when I was 18.
It was but a day when the birds flew above the hill,
And the rain is but a drop;
A flower sits on the window sill,
Perched almighty and refusing to flop.
A wild flower,
Peeking through my window sill;
A charming yet simpler clover,
Lays pleasantly, until
A shroud of clouds hovered by,
And crystals showered upon,
A streak of lightning passed by;
Making the tiny one fall down.
A gentle breeze came by.
The wild flower will live again, somewhere near the sky.