Oh, Little Bush

In the still afternoon, with not much of a breeze,
I hear the zooming of cars and chirping in trees.
Little round bush, just sitting, just being,
Peacefully overlooking the day that is ending.
Most of your elegant stems are now dry,
Your buds are still closed, they look up at the sky.
During the day a bud has been broken,
And on you, a spider sits in a web it has woven.
Here I am now observing you,
Intimidated not, for still you're unmoved.
Unsettled at times by the odd passing breeze,
Tossed for a moment, then still are your leaves.

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