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.