by Lynn Hunter
Yellow, yellow, I am of yellow,
surrounded by others like me.
Upright we are but swaying in the gentle breeze,
opening widely in the warmth of the sun,
waiting for water.
When it comes we drink thirstily
starting with our silk fine roots,
bringing the wetness up up
into the greenness that keeps us standing.
When it doesn’t come
our blossoms close slowly,
shrivel, fall to the ground.
Our leaves curl doing the same.
Still no water, we lean over on the parched earth,
yellow fading to brown.
Lynn Hunter attends Northwestern Connecticut Community College in Winsted, Connecticut. Her poems have been published in the Mad River Anthology, a student literary magazine. Writing poems throughout her life, she has begun studying the conventions of poetry and the work of contemporary poets as she experiments with her own voice.