I never saw the Mimosa bloom
this year, missed witnessing branches
laden with little ladies in petticoats -
each pink puff so carefully careless.
Walking through the woods today,
well into September, her last blossom
long past, I saw seedlings
groping, naked, at her legs.
Autumn leaves them bare, and I
pity the lack of skirts they find
in which to hide shy faces. It seems
a harsh way to spend the coming winter.
Spring will come again,
and burn its way into summer -
I wonder if her little ones
will have survived, or be buried
in the shedding of next year's dress.
Tagged: Poem, Poetic, Poetry, Writing