Yesterday I was ready to take some action in the garden after weeks of neglect. I yanked out the dying hollyhocks, then turned to address the dead sunflowers.
Everywhere I looked, there were tiny goldfinches picking at the seeds drying in the sunflower heads. Fluttering wings made the deadness seem alive. I didn't have the heart to pull out the stalks, not when the goldfinches found them so bountiful.
A lesson in this, I think.
Here's my Flash 55, a ficticious poem.
If you want to play with your 55 words, go see Mr. KnowItAll, whose link you'll find under the blogs I follow.
Not Everything Black Is Broken
The sky went down in flames
of violet and orange
framed by black palm trees
waving their frondy arms.
In the light a shovel seems like a tool,
A builder, a breaker of things
In the dark it is my dance companion
Maker of music, a slip of a dream
Chris Alba © 2009