A dandelion
Bent her head
To listen to
The things I said.

Your name, a word
Of power, broken
Past and future
Sighed, spoken.

Friends we were
And some say are,
In green fields strewn
With golden stars,

Not long ago
But long enough,
‘Til summer balked
At autumn’s bluff.

Winds were chill
And words were frost
Bit then bitter,
Feeling lost.

Summer shuddered
‘Neath her crown
As winter bent
To kiss her brow,

And yellow stars
Went nova then,
Dwarfed to gossamer
Might-have-beens.

I cannot trace
Our path to this:
A corpse in bloom,
A wishing kiss.

I only know
That with this breath,
I scatter wide
These hopes still left.

For birds return,
And so does spring.
And yellow stars.
And fields of green.

~Melody Wingfield, 2011


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