If flowers that dropped from trees could remain fresh and the exact color they dropped as,we wouldn't call them dirt.
We would call them "beautiful things that form a beautiful natural colorful carpet" and even wait for the season that they would fall again and again without ever ceasing to do so.
They're still beautiful
^_^

Tell mother I found my way
and this time I'll stay

Tell insegnante I've got something to say
and it all still sounds the same
but I'm saying it my way

Tell my favorite songs
I think they're too long
because they contain
more than what I've seen

Yell at the devil for being too loud,
leaving me deaf, though I hear
well enough, and tell him I've heard,
well, enough of his cliche,
heavy metal crowd

Yell at the band wagon
Tell it to stop for an oil change,
and make sure it never rides again
Its passengers have something to say,
though they don't want to stay
but they don't want to go away,
though their noses are too long,
and there's no fire in their song

Tell them to say it their way
though they want to runaway
from their minds and from their hearts
while never growing apart
They can't have the best of both worlds
My mind curls

to the beat of its own bongos
and shades of pink and red and black
I find I don't lack

firm ground,
but am more abundant in frowns
sometimes more abundant in smiles.
Depends on the weather.

After  the people leave, that's when
I know where I've come,
how far I've come back to them

So tell my best friend I'm still intact
Tell the crowd I'm not out-of-whack
Tell my favorite songs I've turned them into facts
Tell all poets their words aren't to blame
Tell mother that I'm okay

hits me
before my heart beats the floor
I rise, awake, alive

there is always hope
throbs, sobs through these veins
I rest, forget, regret

Having just climbed
      through ages
up what seemed an endless flight
of narrow winding gothic spiral stairs
I step out
right into the wind's brute force
     instinctively
my arms grasp for a hold
    fearful lest I blend suddenly
    with the white horses
    and the fields of the Camargue
    far down below

Wedged safely
in a nook of stone
a hefty tourist
leans out wide between the walls
toward the setting sun

her summer skirt is blown waisthigh
revealing
unexpectedly delicate lace
above sturdy thighs

her body opens
to the strong soft touch
of the Mistral

A little later
she walks past me
clothes gathered
level gaze calm  
and self-assured

and leaves me wondering
whether the mighty abbot
    on his solitary tower
and his exclusive brotherhood of men
had ever understood
the wind that blew
    and still blows
through two feet of stone
  like they were silk
and thrills a woman
to her bone

      * * *
                                                              ­                        © Walter W. Hoelbling

the river longs for the sea,
stars like blue arcs,
ghostly voices
hum on the breeze,
the flowers of
the night
blossom in the starlight,
the air seems to soften
and clouds drift and drift,
puddles of grey inks with
even greyer moods.