every year, here

the yellow flags find us.

nonchalantly driving,

wondering,

how to spell that word.



looking to the next road,

you know you love,

forgetting the time

of year they come.



flat lands, yellow

with the flags, the iris,

the medieval house.



he talked about the cow,



while i remembered the first field,

filled with them.



i did not take a photograph.



sbm.