Fading

 

My sister’s move reminds me of

flowers starting to fade.

 

I ponder permanence.

 

Proud bristling thistle

aren’t so bright or so sharp.

 

My dancing,

drifting meadow of mallow

starts to fall over.

 

I tie some up. It will

return to the ground.

 

Ominous smoke drifts

from fires far away.

 

Such a thief can

steal summer after

such a long wait.

 

Government’s

kettle of lies

boils progress

and leaves me just hope.

 

While my sister picks

a retirement center.