I first read this poem in the fall of 2014. The first line struck me so completely, I didn’t even need the rest of the poem. Profound.
I cried over beautiful things
knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow
is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman,
the mother of the year,
the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes
and the yellow is torn full of holes,
new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow
on the northwest wind,
and the old things go,
not one lasts.
