For A Flower-Gatherer

With nothing more than a whisper

My life as it has been passes away and dies

As if carried away by the eastbound wind

Over the black tree-lined horizon

Toward the shores of oblivion.

I watch the icicles drip from the eves,

Each drop like the tic-tock of a clock

Counting down the arrival of Spring.

These snow-covered fields will soon be filled

With wildflowers.

The waters of the brook will be running

Loudly and determined to reach their low lying home.

There will be seeds to plant, crops to reap,

And the sun will shine down ever the brighter

Upon our precious land.

Then, perhaps, the seed that has lain dormant

For so long inside my heart will sprout,

And the flower of my love
Will be yours to cherish once again.