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.