82. Crows and the Dandelions

Two crows amongst the yellow flames;
the sun of May ignites their black:
I am mystified.

Oft I have seen such beauty,
as the dandelions peek their ready heads
above the warming
Earth:

as the dandelions grow, and live, and die,
and when at last their heads
grow old, bequeath their silken seeds
to summer days
to air, to chubby hands of
wobbling tots

and as the crows pick worms beside the
dying weeds,
so I grow older, suns continue in their
traversal ‘cross the
skies:

yet -
I am part of these
eternal rhythms,
a part of this lovely and
ephemeral world,
beginning on uncertain paths
as a fluff of dandelion seed,
having brief moments to
fly, and land, and live, and die;
but long enough to feel the air
& see the open sky.