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?
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 5:45 PM UTC
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?