The clouds,
They kiss the tops of the trees with a motherly embrace.
The trees, the reach up their branches to hold them.
They grow too slow and the embrace is missed.
Some of their branches hang limp with the fact of never feeling the soft misted love.
The birds,
They pierce the ground with processioned accuracy.
They must not miss, for their skills hold lives in the balance.
Ebony wings flutter in triumph towards the tops of the trees, their prize writhing in their talons.
Open mouths greet them.
All day they continue the cycle.
Love is their motivation.
The dandelion,
Dropped onto the ground inside a tough shell.
Softened by all the tears of the sky.
The softness is broken by the eagerness of the life inside.
It is cold so it moves toward the bright skyward warmth.
It spends its whole life like the trees reach upward, but never reaching its goal.
It dies, but creates dozens of new life in the process.
The paint,
Years of feet, heat, and water tear it away with an agonizing rip.
It does not mind the pain though.
It has spent its whole life in service and it is ready to rest.
It looks forward to the end.
The poppy,
Lays on the still serving paint its beauty fading in the sun.
The wind and tears of the sky have pushed it out of its resting place.
Its red silently fading to deep dead crimson waiting for the end.
No scream was heard when a petal ripped from the whole was taken by the wind.
The woman,
Sits by the poppy
Watched the still hopeful trees.
Cheers for the never failing ebony winged mothers and fathers.
Showing contempt for the dandelions for invading her emerald carpet of grass.
Feels the warmth of the paint against her skin.
The poppy she feels sadness because she left it out to suffer the harsh elements.
The woman looks away and still admires her backyard.