My Blossom Blue

As long you latent slept, upon the brink
of blooming, clenching fingers curled, as each
a pedal pink and pearled, I'd wait and think;
await your blessed budding, think and reach
my only thought of worth- Your life begun.

To blink and see my blossomed babe, behold
and cradle, cry before my rosling son,
my waking world entire. Your thumbs unfold,
your ocean eyes to open, glimpsing first,
before this world unknown, my welcome wide
and weeping eyes. Your maiden sight a burst
of warmth, of full your father's love. Inside
your silent room, to soon be lost and left,
you latent lay, of smiles and cries bereft.

You Autumn bloom, your sudden spring. I wide
eyed watch your pink and pedals fresh unfold,
the first and fragile breath you caughing cried.
I gentle plucked my rose to heaven hold,
to feel his feathered hair, to breath his scent,
his pollen sweet. I caught your gaze, the dawn
of first your oceans waking, cresting, bent
and breathless blue, like curtains calm and drawn;
unearthly calm, yet crashing Summer swells.

My rosling growing, distant grew, away
away, my blossom blue. As crimson fell,
with Autumn's golden crown to gild the gray
of Winter's womb, from far my born
and blossom blue, I cold and wistful mourn.

Alone, alone as last the yellow leaf
to harvest roam, amidst November's pale
and frosted yawn, without the red relief
of Summer's scarlet, hooded dawning veil-
Away and windcaught, wrapped and wrought
in Winter's womb, I still and sodden morn.

Yet He who Winter weaves, who thorough thought
my blossom blue, His Winter opera born
of wind and string, in wordless wisdom sings:
That blossoms fallen, bloom a blissful Sring.