silver swords
pierce the soil
and rise to dwarf the clover
purple sashes wrap
to slender legs
branches bent by evergreen
are pressed against the bloom
of sycamore and dogwood
ancient plum with weed
yet all I feel
as breezes blow
is a reminder to allow
a story here becoming
what I’ve read
and what I know –
how their fragrance
fills my senses
with the memory of snow –
of last September
maples swirling
just beyond my bed –
as falling leaves surrendered
to habits of regret
for harvests lost
as lessons found –
how it was we came
to touch the sweetest season
yet love them all
the same

. . .