Late spring and the buds
hold tight onto
their secrets, nestling
in the umber
and the green.
The rain in May
leaves dewy drops
that linger on the leaves,
like a promise.
Later, petals dance,
like children
waving hankies
in the wind;
surrendering their moment,
before they fall.
Their scent hangs
heavy in the air —
odiferous and languid.
Long after summers end,
when days draw slow and
fingers red and raw
dawdle in the woodsmoke;
I’ll trace with love the rosy dust,
that talisman of time’s
ruthless passing.
And beholding you,
I’ll hold you,
closer still.
STK