They spring beneath each drop of rain,
sway joyfully in a passing breeze,
first pink, then white, then open, then gone …
… each blossom would become tree.
Nothing more precious, nor quite as brilliant,
as bright and charming can be found,
as amid apple blossoms where rain just stops …
… then sun rests briefly in each one.
Across the way these trees are boundless,
bright as novas in the sky.
But here we rest, in shade, in shadow …
… helpless as our petals fly.