The gentle whistling of wheatgrass,
hovers over the field of ravens and crows.
Tiny mirrors glisten in the silky sky,
as an umbrella is held by pebbles
at the bottom of the premature marigold.
The grove of willow trees sways
to the music of shattered glass,
as it hits the green fabric placed beneath their feet,
like waves crashing upon a shore.
Ah marigold, risen into care--
pebbles cripple the dirt as it crumbles away,
casting dust in the cracks of footprints,
sharing love between distances,
A premature marigold.
Share This Poem