“Your poems are like sketches,”
remarked a friend the other day.
If I could sketch the way this blossom makes me feel,
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.