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.
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