The petals have dried and fallen away.
Only stems and seed pods remain.
I call them daisies out of habit
though I want to give them a new name,
one better suited to their state. Anyway,
the wintering birds will eat the seeds just
the same, maybe survive the cold and snow.

The sun struggles to cast shadows.
If I stand sideways mine is a long stem
with a ball on top, all the petals gone past,
the seeds picked over.
I want to give it a new name,
one to suit its state.

The wind sinks its talons deep in my skin.
I stand in the garden
among seed pods and chittering birds.
Winter’s early gray erases my shadow.
I turn into the wind,
and cross this lean brown pasture.