One day
a field of blazing yellow.
Later, one week,
a sea of bobbing white
fluffy spheres.
Tiny living parachutes
floating off to nearby valley
carefully, with seed.

Next year
the field mowed flat.
No joyful splash of gold,
no ragged grasses
poking up around the edge.
Not one wish left
to fly along with breezes
uninhibited and free.

~ Cameo 2008 ~

 

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