It's like stepping into a huge garden of flowers,
Spinning round and around with your arms outstretched;
And your eyes feasting on the beauty and the color all around you;
You walk deep into the middle of that garden,
And your eye and your mind are then irretrievably captured
By one blossom like all the rest but somehow very different.

The sun only shines properly on this one flower--
You can hardly see the others anymore--
And the light shines with such clarity on this flower that you can see,
As though you peer through a powerful microscope,
Every small, subtle beauty and all the hidden details,
So many that you know you could spend whole lifetimes exploring them.

You realize that all the other flowers are wilted,
Their colors are dull and their nectar is bland,
And you know that they are lovely only because you once saw them so.
Now your very being has come to realize, awed,
The full grandure of how perfect perfection truly can be,
Interest in other flowers wanes like an painter's for a sketch.

You must leave the garden because your life demands it;
But then for your life you resolve to return;
To examine that flower more closely than you ever could before.
You know you shouldn't but you return the next day,
You're far too soon but you absolutely must see it again,
But the flower's been potted and brought inside to be kept from cold.

You know that the flower will be all the more lovely
When it returns in due time from such shelter,
But every moment without it's like living amidst death itself.
Your world has turned gray and lifeless in contrast;
Your world's all you can see and though you still know it's lovely,
It's not important now that you've seen what true perfection can be.
That's what it's like. . . .