Monday, November 17

Dandelion II

Fatigue [its own form of gravity]
will keep you low
to the ground
seeking food, shelter,
a place to pause

a wisp of an orange butterfly
drifts into a puddle of sun
the edge of its wings tattered
as if beaten atop dry grasses
or the jagged winds of an endless journey

it lingers in mid-air
then collapses on the blossom,
delicate black feet part compact petals
urgent as an infant
it suckles nectar from the heart

the waning scent of summer
drifts on the air
fanned by tattered wings
slowly rising and falling
to the pulse of another season

3 comments:

Deb said...

Nice. I have been lost in the first five lines of this poem for the past week. Glad to know I'm not the only creature affected by the change of seasons.

Janet said...

Like Deb - I have stayed with these lines since you shared them monday night --- so lovely.....

Texas2Tennessee said...

that these words resonate in you warms my spirit...thank you