I am a pinwheel, spinning in the breeze
of the people striding past.
They all seem to be late for something.
I’m left reeling, as they hurry by with their lives in hand,
tugging them along
like particularly stubborn children.
I’m still here though.
I’ve stayed where I was stuck in the ground,
beside the flowers that share my bed.
Weather beaten, storm rolled.
I once had a house of cards as a friend,
but he fell when the wind picked up,
scattered across the lawn.
Sometimes,
I wish I wasn’t designed to withstand
so that I could blow away too.