Each One A Beacon

The kids are coming;

The first time I won't be there

In thirty-three years. 

Sky is blue gray today;

Rhododendron's disappeared;

New small blossoms grow.

One buttercup grows

Up through the lying ladder;

Finding its own way.

A lone clover grows

At the edge of the roadside,

Casting its violet.

Spray of yellow blooms

Light up the dim, dark forest,

Each one a beacon.

Drooping to yellow

Trumpet Vine enters last phase--

Bid farewell to white.