They Will Not Be Rushed

Forsythia's gone;
Petals scattered on the ground
With beer bottle top.









Rooster calls again,
He does not expect answers,
Just wants to be heard.


Tiny blue flowers
Have sprung up in the wood's shade,
Shy against yellow.

Opening slowly
Lilac buds turn into blooms.
They will not be rushed.

There in the forest
A clear sunlit blue clearing--
Patch of bright flowers.












On dying pine tree
Tiny bird sits quietly
Melting into brown.

Shadows on the road,
Sunlight paints the trees and leaves;
My mind keeps blabbing.

Dog barks far away;
Bugs fly through the beams of sun;
A soft hollow breeze.