Look- all is reassembled in a year.

For a pastel fleck comes the bee, the thorn.

But seeds who still wait lay frozen by fear

under the wheels of a machine. Unborn.

 

Look- flowers are walking, summer to spread

across so fine a landscape warm and green.

Yet more- and on a pitted tarmac bed

to sun, from shadows owning them, will lean.

 

How shall I honour them? Modesty shows.

Their's the path to lead me, pride let me go. 

Nor let a mind sleep but there a stem grows

and day breaks on the dewdrop on the rose.

 

I have been looking but closer would see

the further they stray- faint stars lost to me.