That object of infinite value
Found as though discarded
The modesty of its hue
Betrays the gold beneath
I am as that which floats,
The freely drifting dandelion
Those that see, they fly.
Nearly crushed ‘neath our feet,
The solitary fragment of autumn survives
Though its breath has ceased
Signs and seals never to be forgotten
The passing years dare not alter her
And the spell remains unbroken.