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?