Ghost Orchid Poem by Pasquale DiMeola

A category all your own
Such rarity to make one moan
The likes of which to seldom see
Against the pull of gravity
A seedling which can't be grown

You hid for ten or twenty years
Not mindful of my barren tears
To feed on love in other forms
And with the clashing of a storm
Your back again to spread sweet cheers

A fickle slight was mine in turn
Come long ago you might have learned
Our kind are nought we've heard it said
So pity not Middlemist Red
You wasted butter in the churn.