“Your poems are like sketches,”

remarked a friend the other day.

If I could sketch the way this blossom makes me feel,

with words,

that would be truly magnificent.

Her petals unfurling in the spring air

light my soul with a smile.

Childhood memories surface:

summer forts, my backyard home,

hours of pretend in the aged old tree.

Buckets of fruit picked from her branches

as blossoms gave way to food.

If I could sketch

the way this blossom makes me feel.