Sonnet on a Day at the End of Summer

 

 

On a sunny day, Dandelions basked

In a planter box, drenched in pure sunlight,

As if woven in ever-bright damask,

With silken blooms placed here left, there right.

 

But then, a cool breeze played upon them,

With a chill reminiscent of autumn,

Whispering soft in petal, leaf, and stem

All declines under an earthly heaven.

 

But this bloom is no less bright for all that,

And any thing of silk, perhaps, nothing,

untouched by this sharp, that flat,

Pricking the sense a blossom may bring:

 

For though the ideal may rest in eternity

Its sense would fade within that certainty.

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