And petals, they fall from the trees like pink rain that isn't wet,
suspended in wind, they drift from the sky.
They fall, searching for an answer, invisible to the average passer by, but lighting up a writers shining eyes,
who puts their palm out, in all whispering wonder,
for a glimpse of beauty as it leaves to fly in the spring wind.
This is an adapted version of a poem that was written on the 27th of August.