Originally written in early 2006. Twinkling groundward in bellowing winds, The blossoms tremble, subtle, soft, and pale, Painting the ground with spring’s own fleeting snow; No two are alike, but all from trees fall. Sol paces the sky, great fire in hand, As I stand beneath, wishing we could mend. Never again can blossom with tree mend, Forever forlorn in whispering winds. Thus I would hold you, prized petal, in hand, With your beauty so elegant and pale, Yet with eager grasp, from tree I too...