Tied up Cupid’s wings and snapped heartstrings,

the wildflowers only speak of that same tongue and tone,

but, nonetheless, never subjected to the easy suffering

of being content.

Spurred fantasies from newly budded roses spring,

telephone wires with too many a crow,

year after year: the things that have only grown,

yet so many things that life still holds.

Even in 100 years the trees might still bud,

but they grow.

Even in 100 years the dust is settling,

And then settles on confidence.

All other lovely things are pyrite,

but that?

soft and golds.