THE YELLOW HAWKWEED

They sing their own songs In the spirit of light. No, they do not take credit for that. Nor, do they drain under dust and disdain That suffers hollow minds. They compose their verses in the wind And revel at their spirits’ charm, or so as it seems. They inspire dance in a dragonfly, Touch in a bee, or a butterfly. And quiver not at the bleat of a goat. They do not complain, nor do they seek--- Attention, that spoil ribbons of love. They bury moments in pure delight, Unlike men that lose sight of purpose. And coil under their own vulnerabilities. They do not fantasize their own glory Nor live a lie that do not define them. They swell in pride with pure submission, That, for man, would take years to fathom As deliberate apprehensions rip off their minds. They sing their verse, unheard, unsung Revel, in the breast of Mother Earth. They feel Her beat, Her heat, and in sweet surrender Submit to the gallows of Time. Though hated, sometimes scorned, undervalued for their power to produce and reproduce. For encroaching unknown territories, Yet they don't complain, for they know Love is for all and they are no exception.