A wildflower lives a single day,
then yields to the wind.
Its children climb gracefully
to signal its early end.

The songbird sings sweetly
of flowers to be born
and dazzling hillside colors
that are yet to be worn.

The songbird's morning song
is filled with mirth and glee,
I wish this were my song
but that is not to be.

My pen is made of sorrow,
just more mellow as I age,
it dries darkly as I brush
a flower seed off the page.