Faced with open pasture,
a path cramped with rotting fruit,
damp impressions of crab apples pressed into the earth.
I am harvesting petals from your rosy cheeks,
hardy perennial blossoms.
There will be nothing left to draw
eager worker bees. Nothing left to show
the way to steal your sweetness.
Nothing left but me to protect you from the wind.
PLUTO BLOOMING 