Each a Blossom

None of this so new to touch these many things View an evening hue and know what joy it brings Inhaled with nostrils flared aroma sweetly drifting From furnaces aflame with bread as breath of life. We have walked before the color of these steps, With lips pursed as if to whistle, fingers poised to Pluck each thistle; sacrificing moments thick With paintings from the Artists' stick. Future or past, we will look again, and wake To look again, at the blossom or the branch, Or the fingers of our hand, softly, softly, lost to each, And standing each, alone; hearts pounding through Our veins of steel as we feel that vast support again And become a crimson blossom of the earth before Our always ends. Now, and now again, hands held At every crossing, telling every dream when to go And when to stay. Always we stand between As cream rising to the top, always rising, Until a flower bursting forth with unbridled pride.