The fields grow wheat in the summer

golden brown, sunshine yellow

too pretty a color for something so plain

In their stead weeds and wildflowers
push through dirt and rock
and know to dull their colors

They sit and sway and are sad
because the spring will never come for them

--

Simple cut cloth of gold and brown
like corn, and warmth, and sunlight

They walk through
they pass it

It’s patterned with sunflowers
As is the room
As is the lid
in the field of other withered crops

--

In a small yellow house
purpose long ago converted to something more tragic
sit vases of flowers

They’re bright, languid, happy
they know time is short for them

They pass them, the mourners
and admire their sad beauty

They talk and everyone’s happy
“It’s been years”
“How have you been”

--

It’s beyond the barren fields they stand
drifting across the grass like ghosts

A blue tent against a blue sky
The sun shines brightly
and nobody cries
because nobody looks long enough to see them do so

The wind blows across the procession
and pushes through the black cloth and through the skin
but does not disturb the subject

It pushes and pulls and carries them away

Someplace far from here
Someplace sadder
Someplace more beautiful

Someplace they rest among the dying flowers