Blossomlane Poem by Stefan Markovski

April comes slowly
calmly, gently, powerfully
getting into time
when the only arabesques
are question marks inverted like golden sixes
drawn onto the glassy morning fog
which tells the eyes where crimson rivers flow
that each herb of the greenery
competes for a more dazzling view of the Sun
that's a path through it
to the mountain from which white doves carry
a cry in unopened envelopes
which resemble a flat plate sealed
with a myrrh blossom and a scent of a dawnworld.