rarelyunusual

The roses are not fretful. They become
A symbol of how it has gone; perpetual small bodies
Held by the sun I have come to do without

Each day while the children walk. Careless,
So sure they have already arrived,
On their backs the tools of learning sleep

With potions of strength in the dark.
Their shoes a map of kingdoms won,
Between their hands spring flowers laugh

And something I knew by heart
Floats across my vision, an insignificant seed
Moving deftly in the breeze

As I turn around to witness it
Then watch it drift away.