Perhaps I am too judgmental.
It’s just, they come so quickly. All of a sudden,
in the spring, I notice them all around,
swaying like silver grass. I am overtaken
by the ones that flower in primary colors
as if they were the first ever to grow.
I am pulled to them, the magnetic mates
to my kindness. But up close, from their roots—
though seeming deep—they are beginning
to brown as soon as they appear. Warmth
from the humid earth brings out their true colors.
I wish I could preserve their yellows and blues,
keep out the air that ages us—then we could
admire the beauty in each other’s faces
through glass. Maybe then I could just say
you are right and I am wrong—take of me.
Except, the truth would start burning—a flame
of my self that requires no oxygen, fading
their color until they become ash—
their emptiness of form, all that I have left of our
brief and fated pairings.
Washtub Press 
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