The Sunder-Glass Bloom

Where silence weaves a tapestry unseen,

And earth forgets its verdant, humid green,

A garden sleeps, of facets sharp and clear,

A symphony of light, dispelling fear.

No soil it knows, nor sun's warm, golden kiss,

But born of starlight, in a cold abyss.

Each bloom a sculpture, chiselled from the air,

A frozen whisper, caught beyond compare.

Of amethyst, where shadows softly dream,

Or sapphire, mirroring a silver stream.

With petals spun from frost, and stems of ice,

A silent miracle, beyond all price.

They drink no dew, nor sway to summer's breeze,

But hum with light, among the spectral trees.

A thousand suns within each crystal heart,

Playing a rainbow's vivid, transient part.

A fragile splendor, born of ancient sigh,

Reflecting heavens in a silent eye.

And though no fragrance rises from their form,

Their beauty calms the soul, withstands the storm

Of worldly sorrow, in their perfect grace,

A timeless wonder, in a sacred space.

A whispered secret, caught in frozen gleam,

The fragile essence of a waking dream.