I think of sins committed long ago,
when first the limbs began to bud. I think of blossoms crushed capriciously,
unseen by lover's eyes. I think of paying for the fragrance lost
by flowers not yet bouqueted. I mourn for all the years we bore the guilt
Bitter wind and bright green buds...
too soon...too late?
Who knows the whims of nature? They flow upon a stream
until the suns of unborn spring
When summer comes
and lushes earth with green bouquets
to shelter creatures deep within,
the heart remembers times