One whose countenance
resembles wildflowers by the road
Who needs to be short-lived
as twilight and dawn
One who'd inspect the earth
the crust into which his roots
dug deep
He'd envision a flight of splintery stairs
leading him down to yesterdays
One who'd live by spinning out
silvery webs as that of a lone spider
Webs that grow dense as a still fog
yet are flimsy like daydreams
in cloud-laden hours
At times a drizzle would start
and make him think of his grave
lined with petunias
He'd then
bid farewell to her
for the season
