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.