PALE BLOSSOMS

Toward the feet of the hill: Pale Blossoms
Tumbling down, root first.

At the poke of wind, they snapped,
breaking silence among golden sod—
made brittle by time immobile.

But hey, they were home!
Just wherever the liquid found them,
resting in many different places.
And then again, today—
A few more withering.

© Gheeneil

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