I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snowon the northwest wind and the old things go, not one lasts.
this was written for me. It is true that winter blows in on the wind sometime in October and blows out in April. I've noticed that since we first moved here. As much as I hate to see things left behind, I know that there is a new beauty in winter.