The flowers I planted last spring have eased off with the Robins.
Their color no longer bright,
But now, lay wet from the frost that’s kissed their stems, their petals.
So, I pull them from the cold soil that once protected them.
And I feel them crumble like the crust of a pie.
I lay what’s left in a circle around me and these pebbles.
Slowing placing them in plastic.
Never to admire their blooms,
Never to water them under the hot morning sun.
Or watch as the bees pollinate them and the hummingbirds dance around their fragrance.