The lone wattle sits diminutively

In the vast paddock, its constellations

Clustered like a map of the universe:

Each orb a solar system with branches 

Heading off in different directions,

Swirling about, unprotected, from the

Solar storms - a jocund planetary

Nebula. On further inspection, each

Flower looks like pilling on a jumper,

Soon to be plucked and discarded; smooth out

The rough edges, lose a star or two, but

Comfortable, warm against winter’s lack,

And worn every year to the paddock, as

The wattle grows and the universe expands.