We are the Wreaths of the Parking Lot

Hush.

For the sky is breaking.

Hush.

New things come.

Snow?

Not rain, oh glorious day!

Yes - the white meshing with tarnished green,

rusted frills

of our parking-lot brethren,

and now,

Our numbers are few.

Now,

Our days are many.

But now?

It’s a new day.

A new lucky pick.

A new desperation.

A new chance.

For we are the wreaths of the parking lot,

and nothing may dim our hope -

But, alas, the skies grow dim themselves.

Snows cease - revert back to that retched rain.

But now, hush.

Old things are here again.

Hush.

For the stars grow bright.

Hush.