The trees stand bare-branched at this moment now
but soon they shall wear robes of white and pink
with fabric heavy to make each limb bow
to spring. With respect, each crowned head shall sink.
I long for buds, subtle signs of splitting,
as shy, young flowers peek to seek outside
the sun’s bright long days with rays emitting,
before stretching, petals spread, yawning wide.
Here, I remember walking to classes.
Hanging heavy with potential, those trees
remain clear. Yet, every blooming passes
and renews itself at the seasons’ ease;
such ashes of spring shall cover the ground,
a carpet unrolled when summer comes round.
