Fields of Flowers [a sonnet]

Walking through fields of flowers with a rope
wrapped around my hands, tied within a knot
that pulls me like snow on a downward slope
from pinnacle heights to a lowly spot;
the greenest grass from the blackest of soil,
sprouting and flourishing here on the earth
with sincerity deep and lightest toil,
bursting in colors of sorrow and mirth;
an image of life in its youthful ways,
beauty that blooms for a short breath of time
before it changes into wilting days,
glancing at mountains where once I would climb:
snow-capped peaks have their own type of glory,
but flowers color my current story.