The Plucked Bloom

The wind breathes fair,
and the lone flower, shy,
turns her face to share
beauty’s art with passersby.

But passerby, brash,
his lone need makes presume
to fair shyness thrash
and savagely pluck the bloom.

The wind gusts rue
as whisper lone leaves
dripping raindrops’ blue dew
to lost blossoming grieve.

Then passerby, Time,
drying bitterness’ tears,
beams upon summer’s prime,
rays of hope melting fears.

The wind breathes new
and fresh blossoms rustling sing
forth new growth from pruning's hew;
beauty healing the pain of spring.

[May 6, 2014]