Nothing like blossoms

Nothing like blossoms
Which flare to life for the next
Generation, cut
By their very existence;
Who will gather our petals?

Although, our seasons
Are likewise short, aren't they?
Billions of heads raised
To the sun; but are we such
Things that never bloom again?

Those poor summer days

Those poor summer days
Whose breezes are kisses, quick
To end. Temperate days,
Exuberant with brief gold.
My tears can't bring them to Fall.

Sandhill Cranes

Swaying red poppies,
The sandhill cranes make their way 
Pacing so slowly;
Such days are gifts to watch traipse,
Though always away from me.