“All things hang like a drop of dew…”

The perfume of the sweeest fruit
contains the scent of decay
fullness of ambition, abandoning youth
forever left on the far shore.

A giant flamboyant poppy
paper petals and black heart
full and giving, orange flamenco skirts
soon to drift and fall.

Vine roots reach down, sucking,
sap rising, transpiration
high summer green heading for
frost yellow brittle winter.

Whole valley a story of spring
held in the palm of time’s hand
Geology will metamorphose
this gift wrapped world

Into something not so tidy.