Mornings are a rush.
I walked past the late school boys,
Past the chatty girls who waited at the bus stop.
My suburban morning walks are a pleasure,
Mothers cajoling children,
And the elderly catching up with each other.
Breakfast smells and fresh colors on wayside,
The beauty of rushed life is still unrecorded.
There is a house which I walk past.
The entrance covered with fallen white blossoms,
Upside down with their stalks a deep coral red,
Glistening in the sun these fallen ballerinas
Dance as the wind softly blows.
And as their white tutus lean sideways;
Rolling over as if pointing their toes to the heavens,
Fallen after a nightly appearance.
The coral jasmine tree shuddered as a truck passed by,
Crushing the fallen ones and bringing new ones down.
The little ballerinas danced away as the truck moved on.
Tomorrow there would be fresh blossoms.
The rush is sometimes chaotic.
But, winds of change it brings,
And the fragrance of life lingers on,
Crushed, renewed and revived.
