For the dverse prompt.
There is a lull in the wind and the flower heads float
still and luminous in the afterglow of sunset.
The world is cloud and meadow
at least this world is
and the things that walk between.
Nothing flies now except bats. Too early for owls
but the clouds sail slow and ponderous as over-laden carracks
uncertain whether they will weep their rain
or hold it back for another day.
There are too many things that call for tears.
I try not to look at the clouds. Memories,
they carry them, their holds full
and if we open too many boxes
the wrong ones are bound to pop out.
Packing and moving is a way to outrun them
but everywhere the flowers grow the same
their white lacy heads still in the dusk
sea foam from an ocean of the past.