waits for a migrating bird, cycling life before me.
The apple bud awaits too -
created each autumn as summertime of life
wilts, browns and dies at our feet.
Nature repeats the cycle
of our death
from year to year.
When will we Fall?
I peek as a bud sleeps
in the cave of crusty snow until
the spate breaks winter's back.
Its shiver is ever so slight
as it awakes to absorb
the slant of spring sun
That will peel it open to tempt me
with ageless hues, as the light enters
me too, a spectrum that dazzles my irises.
Teasing it is to reveal petaline
hints as it absorbs sweetened
drops of night's moisture for revival.
I will see its revival in the coming spring rain
and I count my refrains
to pluck the apple blossom - as my regret dies
On the vine, and I will miss it once again,
as it grows paler with each sunburst
and crinkles to colorful dry remains.