Soft, blushing, white-pink petals
bloom from the young eyed naive.
With reaching hands, their branches
pry and ***** at the crisp cold air.
Stretching to find notice,
yearning to grasp existence.
Day after day they listen to the almost
inaudible pitter patter when the sky cries,
and pay close attention to the invisible force
that whispers quietly while passing.
All the while, there is no answer.
In bouncing reflections they look,
though they do not see.
They cannot see.
past the rippled perception,
past the clear mask of emotion,
like a blind man expanding his fingers
diving into the foggy abyss,
aimlessly wandering.