I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman,
the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things
come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go,not one lasts.
|Cornflower, photo by Marian Kent|
Welcome to the Tuesday Platform, a place for sharing poetry.
Link up a poem from your blog, old or new.
Then visit, read, and comment on the offerings of others.
Enjoy, and we look forward to reading your work.