Fragile branches and
Delicate yellow blossoms, budding
Petals cascading copiously,
Always tearful,
Like falling rain, heavy at times-
She is a raging storm on a summer’s night.
On a spring day you shall
Meet her, as she gently sways
In an early morning zephyr breeze,
Each and every branch, intertwining
Reaching out for solace and
Grasping for every chance at love.
All of the warmth she carries in her
Heart of silver
Melts the snow that covers the ground,
Throughout the wintertime.
She becomes a stark and barren tree- though small,
White against the sky of
Prussian blue and cirrus clouds,
Her bark shines beneath the sun.
Awakening every night,
She makes contact with Saturn’s eyes,
Her branches have been scarred,
Throughout the years,
Now in a wretched state,
If she were human she would surely weep, and
Everybody could hear her doleful sobs, as
She continues to grow slowly and almost alone.
She grows alone in the midst of every storm,
Whether in summer or the winter,
Her beauty shines through in the yellow flowers she bears
Every time spring arrives.
Someday a wind too strong for her to withstand shall
Uproot her and she shall be gone.
No one shall remember her,
Not anyone, except for me.
I have seen my reflection in her heart of silver
In which I can see the goodness of her soul,
When she dies and is gone away,
Whenever I see a plant as such bearing yellow blossoms,
Fragile and soft as these- it shall be deemed “Forsythia”.

schizoclaud