Flying Flowers

White dust fell, stirred by breeze and
bouncing off the windshield onto
the street. Too weightless to be hail,
although the sky was ominous. Not ash,
no smell of something burning near.
At the stoplight, glancing right she
noticed waving naked tree, that gladly gave
its blossoms when kissed sweetly
by the wind. Clouds opened then, but
not for long, and by the time she crossed
the county line, the sun was shining once
again. Something like a sob rose up
within like whitecaps on the lake as
she drove past, but nothing there of
sorrow or regret except for end
of such a sweet and peaceful day,
a blossom that has drifted off its
limb, been lifted by the air until it
slowly comes to rest below.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013