Squarely holding ground like she would for her slice of a mezzeria,

Mia’s hands vased her floral flag, her rosy rifle, her allay bouquet—

Ready to exert flower power,

Aiming to boom via bloom,

Firing with form of warm.

She would, by the acres, now sow serenity for the achers,

Producing enough peace to be shared with all—known, alone, grown. ; )