The blossoms gently falling in soft rains become a trail of crumbs.
They will lead us to the crimson fruits of a distant summer.
It’s a vanishing beauty; heralding what will surely come.
A cycle in time repeats itself, completes itself, over and over.
Birds in flight will return in the dead of night.
Gliding home on the leading edge of last evenings storm.
They return from places burned deep in their primal memory.
Home to sooth us with songs in springtimes sunlight so warm.
These are the wonders of spring that are now on my mind.
The wonders of color and sound now abound for mankind.
I can taste it, smell it, and feel it deep in my soul.
It’s a meal complete, a sacrament so I've been told.
So I will mourn not for blossoms that fall in the dead of the night.
I’ll rejoice in the carpet they leave of velvet-like white.
Awaiting the fruits of the summer that will soon come along,
Biding my time, listening and loving the newly arrived nightingales’ song.~Jay Olson
