Their skin is porcelain, both pale and smooth,
Adorned with petals soft as morning light.
Each bloom a whisper traced across their form,
A secret sung in colors faint but bright.

Through fields of muted hues they walk as one,
Their hair like tangled vines in gentle sway.
The wind obeys their quiet, graceful step,
And flowers rise to greet them on their way.

But underneath the petals lies a spark—
A fiercer root that twists against the soil.
What seems so delicate may yet endure,
A beauty born from patience, growth, and toil.

They are the garden and the heart combined,
A floral hymn to strength both soft and kind.