Standing majestically apart,
Swaying to and fro in the breeze,
Adorned with regal robes and a stately face.
Demanding attention, if even a glance, from one and all.
Showy today, then too soon he departs
To return next year, if he pleases.
Some accuse him of being a flash in the pan.
I contend he really has no choice.
Note: I think this is a form of poetry called an Octave. It contains eight lines.