You are the last of your kind,

poised on the brink of a yearly extinction

which drives your species

to its annual death.

Yet you leave your imprint,

your fossilized remains,

written on the tablets of our hearts.

Deep in the sediments of our souls,

your skeletal stamp

lies preserved in amber,

 etched into the memories

which will guide us back

(a paleontological migration),

panting for your beauty

in the spring.

*

The gardener in me gets sentimental this time of year, as I see the beauty of my garden give way to the changing of the guard which announces Winter’s imminent arrival.  How fun to feel as though I am a paleontologist, exhuming a rare species, digging patiently, waiting for spring…