...

The Fate of Beauty

A stag, standing on the edge of the lake,
is too lost in some far-away thought to notice:

The wind rips the poppies
off the antlers of the stag.
They land in the cold water,
for a moment doubled by their reflections,
shimmering like sputtering flames.
Then the water crushes their blushing petals
and drags them slowly under.
They sink, let their tomb steal
the warm color, their only sweet smell,
and are consumed.