Her yellow petals
          once
                   gently
swayed.

to the breathe
of the wind.
the violence from his weather
entered
It is always raining.

The yellow flower remains still.

Her pistol
wilting.

Again.

Yet, she rises with the sun.
Only to seek water
for the dying roots
Beneath her.

No, within her.

Darkness hides the dull
of her green stem.
Yellow.
Dried.
Parched.
Yearning,

to be
a wildflower in the wind.