Blossoms Brown

 

It came after a rain,

turned cold in the gloom.

They were allowed to bud,

even to bloom,

but life had no room,

so they returned to the womb.

Never reaching the fruit,

they must follow suit,

guided by the flute

to their tomb.

It wasn't supposed to be this round;

shouldn't have happened

until they fell down.

What is

is what is.

These assumptions are ground.

The facts lie in a mound,

of these blossoms brown.

Poem and Photo copyright by Mar Startari, 2018

Previous
Previous

Applemaker

Next
Next

e