From space they look like pollen,
(the umbrellas blooming on the beach)
row after row by the shoreline,
like a pollen garden
planned and plotted on a grid
(this section for yellow blooms,
this one for the blue)
with precision, obsession,
waiting for the wind or wasps to
collect them and carry them away.
Sometimes I wonder when the
world will sneeze, open its sinuses
and, when the infection clears,
start with something new.

{Taken from the hour three prompt).