I ponder on the idea of great fields,
Petals falling from yellow roses,
How their stems wither upon departure.
The winter mornings resist blooming,
Dandelions carry away until spring,
Frost creeps over their corpses.
Their memories live in the depths of summer,
November air fades the tint,
And no small hands
Reach for them to carry inside before dinner,
As mom cooks over the oven,
And dad comes home too late.
The grass of the fields never stops swaying, even
As the air begins to dim
And flowers wilt.
