Friday, February 11, 2011

'Till Your Mane Turns Silver

The deepest color
ever granted to a wildflower
will soon drain away.
The gentle blossom
splintered and cracked, reaches for the slow winds,
like the granite holds
for temples long gone.
In an all or nothing salvation run
with hopes, chartreuse dreams,
and a wish that the life in its petals,
will fall to the mercy of gravity
and quench the faint roots,
that are loosely hugged
by the prairie silt.

This survivalist,
unseen passes by my field blaze pupils
as I snap the stem,
caress your face and place that pale pink bloom
in your deep hued strands.

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