These buds, these blooms in blossom
delicate and ornate, clash
in a bold statement
to begin the march
clinging to a gossamer thread
of life, fighting to withstand
the mighty winds--unrelenting,
resisting the dance of seasons
These buds, these blooms in blossom
soft and silent
herald a message
brash and unabashed
more forceful than the tempest's harshest gales
when everything has lost its color
when your heart fears
it has stolen the blue from the sky
replacing beauty
with dour gray
These buds, these blooms in blossom
gentle and pastel
many fall unnoticed--a worthy risk
a tale of self-giving
foretelling, reminding
that these clouds shall be lifted.
--It's rainy, it's cold, it's windy, the sky is dark and it resembles anything but spring. And yet these budding trees, these first flowers puzzle me. They have the audacity to confront the weather with their tacit statements; is it to say "your time is up, go home" or give us hope when we wonder if spring will ever come? This season is an odd juxtaposition of violence and serenity. It is as if everything has been in winter slumber, the wind is simply an irascible response to being awakened from its hibernation.--
