I am a member of that host
here by the bay
from flinty, frosty shudders to the weary wilt of season’s end.
On parade in my egg-yolk crown,
fluttering, dipping alone in this crowd.
Breeze blasts cruel tempo and pushes me:
I’m on my knees then twitch again to still.
That bitter loath-ed wind, though
once brings me closer to the others;
my golden, glinty out-of-reach friends
back-to-me, bending away
In gust-shove our petals touch
and back, bouncing. Bobbing, by myself, until I die.
Meanwhile, clouds roll by in raucous mergings
a downpour conspiracy to send the poets couchward once more.