A Blossom to the Wind
I’m carried in,
beneath a broom
I’m hurried out,
while fields moan
and hillsides
seek your favor.
If I ask you where
you’ve been,
would you stop
to mourn my passing?
No, says the wind,
but before I go,
I will always
wish thee well.
Such will be my end:
the simple truth
and one last blessing.
March 22, 2006
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