I sit and look at the ancient tree
some say it has a story.
knotty small trunk and twisted
limbs the same dark color.
I see small twigs, blacker still,
survived the winter's freezing.
At the tip of each fragile stick
bloomed a flower an a-ged color.
no attempt was made to catch the eye,
caring not so much for visits.
But a visit the flower did have that day
when I thought upon the blooming
they ivory white but underneath
a smoky colored brown
light yellow aged a hundred years
turned my mind around
I saw the tree shaped into
a large and handsome frame
twigs made dark keys upon the board
dogwood flowers made the same.
88 keys of flowers and twigs tied onto a string.
Spring breezes play across the limbs, a distant melody.
Soft is the willow leaf, bright is the yellow bell, but if
you close your eyes at Spring what will the dogwood tell?