Standing Atop Pollen

I walk past a wall of pictures, 

Some bright, 

Some black and white, 

Some dull but still rich, 

Paper crinkled, 

Wrinkled from the fast-paced 

Rain of time, 

The drops falling deft for periods, 

But closing off to the sun, 

Each cycle putting each petal 

Of a great tulip to work,

Closing off a generation,

Forever dry from the rain,

Perhaps getting faded

As fog builds up,

Perhaps becoming brittle

As mud dries out,

But still with an umbrella

Until the rain comes to an end

And the sun peeks through,

The petals opening again

To let another family thrive,

And the beams melt away

The colorful leaves

Into pages stamped with the past

That unroll to a row

That lies before me

As I stand atop pollen.