The flower heads flip up
  like the hems of skirts
  as the summer wind lifts
  a thick rubber mat of cloud

to slap back down on stunned ground
  but out of sternness, not hate.
  In a day the bees will be back
  to sip at the tiny buds again.

They do not see yellow as we do
  through our moist and simple eyes
  because they are professionals
  and we are only visitors for a day.

When Arctic blasts return
  and all of these are uprooted,
  when we have forgotten this yellow,
  it will not have forgotten us.