Morning Pansy Dew

Summer for the Texas Pansy

Soon my face will wither.

The aging of spring.

To a hot end from cold winter breath.

I quietly seek the bee that will prolong my place.

In the garden, in my flower bedding.

 

Oh sun of day, why transfix me with your gaze.

Cannot you see the tears of dew upon my gentle face?

They mourn even now, as my leaves begin their wilt.

Will I fade so quickly from the scorching heat?

In Texas gardens,  my time is short.

 

Remember me.

 

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