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Poem

Wrapped in a secret day of thoughts, I pondered,
If I should overturn my soul, to wear it on my face as a garment.
Would it have unfolded with stitch and patch apparent,
Or perhaps its embodiment would be unimaginably elemental?
I envision it otherwise, beyond breaks and wounds,
I close my eyes and there appears a field of spring in flights and blooms.
An infinity of dandelions, fallen stars in the grass budding with hopes,
Dominated in the center by a tree, stately in its leaf-whisked dance.
Ah, in every soul hides a tree, progenitor of life's breath,
And mine now crowns itself in spring's blossoms, in white and pink, in festive attire.
It struggles between being and seeming, between blooming and invading the depths of being.
My field, laid before closed eyes, is not merely a stretch,
It is a heart's atlas full of elevations and depths, where you too have built.
Delicate joys, salted sorrows, all there inscribed, raise or fall,
With stubs that start stories and stones rounded by time, like destinies.
And then, stillness, a canvas of peace sewn with clouds sweet as cotton candy,
The scent, the unseen hero, invades my senses stealthily, blooming all my springs.
My spring does not go silent to the rhythm of the seasons, no,
It chains the hours, the days, the years, an endless act of presence.
It might stretch over a lifetime, or perhaps, even beyond death.
And while the slow days heat up in pink dusks and in light,
I carry in my mind an eternal, unfading spring,
The tree in my soul, unchanged in its brilliance, a perpetual "now".

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