The Mountain Ash berries preserved in ice,
waits for a migrating bird, cycling life before me.
But the formed 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 you sleep
in the cave of crusty snow until
the spate breaks winter's back.
Your shiver is ever so slight
as you awake to absorb
the slant of spring sun
That will peel you open to tempt
me with your ageless hues, as the light enters
me too, a spectrum that dazzles my irises.
Saucy you are to reveal petaline
hints as you absorb sweetened
drops of night's moisture for yourself.
I will see your revival in the coming spring rain
and I will count my refrains
to pluck you - but then my regret will die
On the vine, and I will miss you once again,
as you grow paler with each sunburst
and crinkle to colorful dry remains.