The rain plops in wide-wale drops
upon the Day-Glo dandelion tops.
The frilly buttons don’t care
that these pieces of the gray May cloud
rhyme in imperfect rhythm.
They stand and nod their yellow heads
with the beat it feels as Nature
drops a wet one on them like some
maiden aunt come calling.
Some sundown soon, they’ll age overnight,
like your poets, fathers, teachers,
mothers, sisters and brothers,
their coifs turning white, taking
a breezy goodbye flight.
A new generation who’ll dance
like Grateful Dead fans bobbing to their own
beat in next May’s Box of Rain.
A new poem ‘because I needed to. A 100-worder because I needed to prove I still could. Story #6 to come.