She Never Did Care for Hollyhocks

She never did care for hollyhocks, those stately spires
that thrust their speckled faces toward the summer sky,
preferring instead the modest blush of shy violets,
the quiet murmur of clover beneath her feet.

While hollyhocks stand guard in the garden’s row,
their crimson and gold a bold proclamation,
she wanders the hedgerow where daisies nod,
content in the soft, unassuming hush of green.

No need for the lofty bloom that courts the sun,
her heart finds pleasure in the humble, the hidden,
where petals fall like whispered secrets,
and she walks on, unbothered by the tall‑standing flowers.