by James Crews
Pink fades from the petals of echinacea
like the scraps of a fraying blouse
washed too many times in summer light.
Now, we are reaching the end of something,
and it’s hard to believe these flowers
won’t be here in a few weeks, crowding
my window with their silent swaying,
their top-heavy presence. What once fed
butterflies and bees will now dry out
to feed the finches, each heart-center
turning to seeds that will soon disperse
on scouring wind. May it be so
for each of us too, the hidden parts
of ourselves becoming something lighter,
the pieces we finally learned to love
in spite of it all, drifting off
or clamped in a beak, our true essence
spreading across the earth.
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