This springtime come,
And
the what I thought
would be the yearly crop
of pink-white plum blossoms
popped. . .
I smiled to myself,
reacting,
but, also
anticipating,
expecting the typical expanding
into a vast
array
upon their
volunteering, supple, bending tree
But it seems,
that that was it–
a smattering,
a disperse spray,
where I looked for
a vast array
upon their tree,
But they
went straight quick
to green-red leaving,
with scarce a pause, much less a stop.
So little time,
even in the sight
of those scant several or few
to delight.
Seasons not only change
in constant shifting cycles
each year,
but, too, do vary
uniquely
one year so different
from the next. . .
To note what’s here
in the fleeting time it may be here,
call it a challenge,
a normal practice,
or a daunting test.
But, no matter which,
sometimes, the way it plays,
you must be swift. . .
To love who’s here, while they are here,
you need not every time,
to every one
to do it sweet.
But in whatever way
you can,
that way that’s just your own,
and according to
the real time and day.
But, just in case,
it may be best
to seize upon
what words to use,
or how to act,
and above all,
you minimize delay
and, when you can,
get to it fast.
For nary a one
of any of us knows
when
our would-be beloved ones
or we
our end,
or at least departure
from this kind of life,
shall meet.
The Danforth Anchor 