Saffron-hued flowers huddle on a wind-whipped clifftop.

Sea breezes toss and twirl pollen,
eddies send some back down to the beach.
Land breezes feed pollen to the dark waters far below.

The flowers are ever-tousled by the wind’s rough hand.

What must they love, in their sightless stance,
that matches my sighted stare at sea and sky?