Categories
Poetry

Ballad

 Now comes the quiet hour.
 The sunflower bows its heavy head,
 its soft petals curl,
 drop like tears to the dry ground.
  
 Now the finch eats her fill.
 She sparks across the garden 
 to hungry chicks
 and sings one true ballad.
  
 All depends on this quiet hour,
 the faded flower, its heavy load,
 the finch's wings
 and one true ballad.