Sunbursts
Her bare hands,
deeply wrinkled, touch the thorns
on the rose.
The petals-
color of the tiny pin-
prick of the blood
on her ring-
finger drop onto the cherry
bark surface.
The oval
ripened fronds are flour-soft;
they are bursting,
for the morning
of pines, birch and maples, that pose
as if sketched
in chalk tints.
She feels the flush of Spring
gardens; the lift
of a song-
sparrow as the buttercup
gold blessing
of the sun
softly touches the ruby-
mocha bricks
of her home,
in which she silently yearns-
like the hush
of falling
snow-to bloom in her twilight years-
sunburst plumes.
.
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