sweet cry of the breeze
tugs the flower-bud turmoil,
petals of worry
slowly bend down into bloom,
the naked unrests
swing faint and fragile as pollen
slipping off their grip
from the yellow anther nerves—
there they go, drifting
sparse clouds of agitation,
ascending to none
before the flower's wilt and close—
sepals bend upright,
aureate fears wrinkle, entwined
then time bears witness
to the supplanting achenes:
fruits crowned with bristles,
outstretched hands cling to the wind
then carried away to where
calm looms over—
the blank, green fields.