the field is a constellation of color
a vast universe dotted with petal’d stars
where harvesters buzz like bees
armed with scissors
for take-home delights
that don’t last
the crystal autumn sky watches
without emotion
throwing down rays of dust
to nourish the future,
who buds in quiet industry
in spite of the invading hoards
This poem is about the field of zinnias at a pumpkin patch that operates as a cut-your-own-bouquet attraction. I couldn’t find a photograph of it (my hard drive just bit the dust – argh) so you’re having to settle for making your own mental image instead. Thank you for reading!
The Poetry Patio 