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. .