The wind shakes thoughts,While plant-pots scatter.
The sharp air takes the breath - she gathersHer cardigan to her chest; hair blown into knots -
She pushes it back off her face - seeds cling to her feet
The others she carries on her shoulders.
Then there are the ones with wings; swirling and twirling -Through the harsh sun-winds. They stick to the fabric
Of her nature. Most ground themselves;
Some will grow.
These will be nurturedAs they came from the earth,
As more seeds sow inside - the winds tear and tear.
She cares - even about the nettles
They can be eaten - like your words.
Honey-smoothed to make a rhyme,
Stick in the memory of time…