This morning I looked at a dahlia
Glistening yellow in the rain
Its petals spiraled, regular spikes
Tiny stamens in the dampened mane

I wondered how the bees would struggle
How deep they would have to dive
To mine the precious pollen
And wing back to the hive


Thoughtful, I stared at a buckeye tree
A stubborn, twisted thing
Laden with its poisonous fruit
Spotted trash of the wood
Some would say

When Autumn comes the dahlia dies
Its petals brown and withered
The buckeye will only lose its leaves

Until Spring